


UF Origins -- Season 1 -- Episode 2: God Bless the Ottoman Empire

by Turandokht, Voyager989



Series: UF Origins [3]
Category: Babylon 5, Mass Effect - All Media Types, Multi-Fandom, Star Trek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-13 23:24:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16481726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turandokht/pseuds/Turandokht, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voyager989/pseuds/Voyager989





	1. Chapter 1

**Introduction**

Elia returned from Babylon 5 and her temporary assignment to the  _Aurora_ looking exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally. The transporter deposited her below the bridge with a duffel bag over her shoulder, and she started up to report in to the Officer of the Watch.

Arterus had the rotation. Elia liked him, though they hadn’t had much time to talk. He sat with confidence in the command chair, and like essentially all Rihannsu (and Vulcanoids in general) registered as a low-level telepath to Elia, though the nature of their telepathy was subtly different, relying more on electrical fields, and thus far more efficacious in direct skin contact. Elia was still envious of a society where everyone was a telepath.

“Lieutenant tr'Rllaillieu, Lieutenant Commander Elia Saumarez, reporting for duty with TDY aboard the ASV  _Aurora_ complete.”

He rose, and saluted. “Commander Saumarez, welcome back aboard. I’m about to initiate a speed run to our jump position. We were supposed to depart for Drachenfeldt four hours ago, but the Captain ordered us to hold and wait for you instead and make up the time.”

Elia’s eyes widened briefly.  _Zhen’var isn’t the kind of person who normally makes allowances for friends in operations. Period._ “I won’t take up another minute then, Lieutenant…”

“Oh, well, you should at least have the  _chai_ the Captain had me keep ready for you,” Arterus answered with a chuckle. “She left standing orders about that before she retired for the night, Commander.”

“I’m not sure if it’s too early or too late, which I suppose means I might as well.” Elia looked in comfortable surprise at her favourite thermos being supplied full and hot. “You’re a perfect gentleman, Lieutenant. Carry-on!”

“Ma’am!”

Elia headed back to the turbolifts and keyed in the code for the Officer’s Mess, nursing the spiced tea as she did. It wasn’t always her favourite but right now it made her think of Zhen’var, and home, the  _Huáscar,_ and that was important. She felt too keyed up to sleep still, and would have nothing to do until she was put back in rotation, so it made sense to not even think of sleeping.

 When she got to the Mess, she saw a table near the bar with Anna and Abebech at it, talking. Elia realised with a jerk that it was actually very early morning for the  _Huáscar,_ about 0400 in fact, since the ship ran on Portland time when the  _Aurora_ ran on New Liberty time… She was still incredibly out of it from her experiences on Babylon 5.

Anna gestured to one of the empty chairs at the table. “Please, Elia, have a seat. Welcome back. Not even enough time to take your duffel back to quarters?”

“Just didn’t much want to.”  _Don’t want to be alone right now, having to think about everything I talked about with Captain Dale._

“What happened?” Anna asked. “Do you want coffee?”

Elia raised her mug. “On top of my tea? Come on, Anna, I’m not that wired… I might, actually. It might be better to stay awake than sleep; I don’t want to ask Nah’dur for some pills that will knock me out for the next twenty-four hours, even though it is tempting.”

“The bleary realities of the unending absence of sleep,” Abebech murmured, surprising Elia. She was getting used to the woman rarely communicating with her, her shields like some kind of pit into which thoughts would slowly disappear. Elia was grateful that Abebech had essentially worked her job for her  _in addition_ to Abebech’s own for the past weeks, and Abebech was probably brutally exhausted as a result. But some more communication would have been appreciated.

Abebech was another telepath, even if she was from S0T5, where the history of telepaths--’espers’--was mired in uncertainty and legend surrounding the Earthreign. Many states there, as here, oppressed telepaths, and Elia had hoped to share some kindred sentiments with the formidable woman.

Instead, Abebech had maintained a deep reserve of a type alien to most telepaths of her homeworld. There was no mental contact with her, only with the Dilgar onboard who belonged to the Mha’dorn, welcome friends all, to be sure. But now Abebech regarded her from behind those shades she always wore. Elia decided to risk it: < _Hi._ >

“You’d be surprised how much you can keep getting done anyway,” Anna interjected.

A very faint smile touched Abebech’s lips for a moment. “I am certain the Captain won’t return you to rotation for a few days. You can ease yourself back into it.”

 _So much for that._ “So what did I interrupt?” Elia dared next.

“Commander Imra and I were having a cordial disagreement about the likely outcome of reorganisation efforts in the Reich. We’re going to a planet called Drachenfeldt which has German, Bulgarian and Japanese ethnic communities on it,” Anna explained. “Commander Imra thinks the situation will rapidly disintegrate, based on precedent when the local Imperial hegemon is removed and considering Nazi governance practices. Well, I come from the tradition of the Commonwealth, and the voluntary union and collaboration of Poland and Lithuania. I think people actually  _can_ learn to work together in the outer regions of the old Reich, even without centuries to become modern or anything else like that.”

“The  _Rzeczpospolita Obojga Narodów_ was an exceptional case,” Abebech countered. “With little comparable precedent in history. The slow collapse of many great Empires, and not just on the ground but also in the stars, suggests a depressing regularity of war as the hinterlands find themselves no longer subjected to a metropole.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “You say that, but we did exist successfully for centuries, and it provides a path forward. Or I’m just one of those idealistic  _Aurora_ people… So, Elia, what do  _you_ think?”

Elia had looked up Drachenfeldt on her tablet in the meantime. One of the first things in the intelligence report was a nationalist music video that had momentarily transfixed her. She looked up with an expression neither of the others liked. “Ladies, I think we’re going to  _find out._ ”

  
  


_**Undiscovered Frontier: Origins** _

_**Season 1 Episode 2** _

_**“God Bless the Ottoman Empire”** _

**Act 1**

Drachenfeldt was a relatively normal third-wave Reich colony deep into the antispinward reaches of Nazi territory which had been occupied two weeks after the Battle of Welthauptstadt Germania and the surrender of the primary Reich elements. Their orders and their arrival had hardly been attended with any kind of urgency. Despite the very real risk of raids from Reich ships which, by the hundreds, had refused to surrender, the planet had no other allied warships in orbit. A single understrength division from the British Stellar Union formed the garrison. For the most part, the trip there had been occupied by training sessions, attempting to sort out point-and-call and Zhen’var’s initiative centric command structure.

The reports were composed on the ship’s readiness, Fei’nur’s on the Marine battalion readiness for ground operations and Security personnel support capability, Nah’dur’s on their ability to support humanitarian relief operations, Elia’s on their ability to transporter support for humanitarian supplies and transport, and Abebech’s on the status of the support wing. Below her fake windows a faithful image of the planet was revealed in all the blue glory of a garden world, of which the Reich had possessed many.

Zhen’var finished the reports, and then headed to the main conference room. There, Will was preparing the briefing as the full strength of her senior officers--even Lieutenant Tor'jar at comms--was mustered along with the senior NCOs. “All right, comrades. Will has put a fair amount of effort into the briefing prep, and he should give us the top down without any problems. If you are ready, Commander, go ahead and get started.”

“Of course, Captain.” Will smiled, but as his projection came up, he grimaced. “Welcome to Drachenfeldt. It’s a fairly typical of the Reich colonisation scheme, Germans occupy the major cities and the most fertile farmland. A bare plurality of the population is Japanese--even after the war which reduced the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere they were not re-classed as  _untermensch_ \--but they were subjugated as miners and here were working in the lowest status jobs in processing industries as well. The Japanese are a proud people, and there has been considerable resistance in the past to the Reich overlords.” He grimaced again. “With concomitant massacres.”

“The next ethnic group comprises the middle-class in the large towns and small cities and holding the marginal farmland and many fishing industry jobs--Bulgarians, who were exempted from the general massacres and reduction of the Slavs by their status as allies during what the Reich historians called the Great Aryan Crusade. It’s been the Bulgarian population who have traditionally owned the mines which employ the Japanese, who very slightly outnumber them. Racial enmity between subordinate groups was intentionally kept high by the Gauleiter of the planet according to standard practice in Reich governance. And now comes the bad part.”

He took a drink of water, looking up with a wry expression. “So, the commander on the surface has informed us that an extensive store of arms for reserve and second-line forces has been looted and is held in part by all sides; at least some Reich soldiers melted away and are working for the Bulgarian National Council instead of surrendering, and there are probably some Werewolf holdouts as well. So, bottom line: Drachenfeldt is swimming in racial enmity and arms.”

“So, you are saying it would be  _difficult_  for the situation to be any worse?” A wry tone suffused Zhen’var’s voice as she summarized her read of the state of the planet.

Will sucked in his breath and chuckled morbidly as he moved to sit. “Yes, that’s about the beginning and the end of it, Captain.”

“They aren’t shooting each other. Yet.” came the gruff voice of their Marine commander, as Zhen’var sarcastically grinned back to Fei’nur. “ _Thank you_ , Colonel, you are always capable of finding the way a situation can get worse.”

“So… We’ve got to find a way to help these people all get along when they’re interested in score settling and armed to the teeth is the way I see it,” Violeta offered. “A challenge, but we’ve certainly just got to pathfind a solution and keep the peace until civilian resources are brought to bear.”

“Were it that simple, Leftenant,” Abebech spoke. “The reality is that the Harris Station Charter finds itself committing the Alliance to the partition of Reich space. As a result, our job is to hold  _order_ until the final disposition of the planet. No different than one of the great multiethnic Empires of Earth history.”

Violeta blanched. She was aware of the Harris Station Charter, but the implications stuck in the craw of any kind of liberty-minded person.

“Not only that, but we must do so with minimal force and an indifferent garrison. A scratch division with limited heavy weapons. Do we have any word on whom the planet is to be assigned to in the…” Her lips curled. “... peace?”

“Not yet, Captain,” Will said, more subdued. “Or even ‘if’. Might be, might not be. In some way, the collapse of the Reich was faster than expected, the diplomats are still working.”

“Not an improvement. Thank you, Commander. We have our orders, even so. We are going to carry them out as best we can, and prepare in case… the usual result of such an ethnic powder-keg comes to pass.”

Elia was studying a holo-display from her omnitool. “Captain, shall we deploy a scansat grid? Not just for communications but also to support distributed sensor networking for armaments detection. It seems worthwhile in the situation you’ve just described.”

“Please. Any other ideas from the table? This is going to be a difficult situation, at  _best_.” Zhen’var’s eyes flicked around the officers and NCOs gathered. “Our  _intent_  is to find the best outcome for the planet and its’ people,  _without_  violating our over-arching orders..”

“We need to find out what the common people actually need,” Goodenough offered from the wing of the table occupied by  _Heermann_ officers.

“Concur,” Anna added. “The Reich has ruled these peoples like serfs--which mean the politically active will be the upper class. We might override whatever their objectives are if we can just offer immediate needs to the mass of the people.”

“To a point. Even an under-class can have some level of organization. There will be  _many_  conflicting interests, and even more hidden ones we cannot see. Let us try and divine what of them we can. Everyone, get comfortable. We may be here quite a while...”

  


That evening, Zhen’var received a communication from the surface as she was in her ready room. An officer in British khakis with the rank of Major, a fresh-faced, freckled redhead, appeared on her screen. “Major Sara Haraway, adjutant for CO, Drachenfeldt Garrison Division. Captain Zhen’var,  _Huáscar_ commanding?” Receiving a nodded confirmation, she continued. “Brigadier Jonathan Peacham, divisional commander, sends his compliments and invites you and your senior officers to Saackenweld, the planetary capitol, for dinner and an opportunity to meet officials of the local population.”

“Thank you, Major. Do you have a preliminary report on the local situation for my officers? We stand ready to assist you as may be needed, with up to a single ad-hoc battalion.” She was all business, voice already having developed the same sort of mixed accent Warmaster Shai’jhur possessed.

“It’s been hard enough for us to simply patrol the built-up areas around the capitol, I’m afraid, and we only have a brigade-level staff. The briefing you got is probably all the prelims we sent out. BLUF is there’s two major organised groups, the Bulgarian National Council, and the Rejuvenation Society, which was a secret society of the ethnically Japanese miners. Both are armed. The Germans are quiescent, frankly in a state of shock over the Reich being defeated. The Brigadier will try to fill you in with more details when you arrive on the surface.”

“Good enough, Major. I will assemble a delegation. We will see your CO for dinner. Please extend my thanks to Brigadier Peacham.”

“Of course, Captain. Eighteen hundred, if you please. Local, of course--in two and a half hours.”

“See you then.” With a sharp nod, she let the connection break… already dreading a formal event as this. Now she needed to figure out who to bring.  _Elia has certain special skills, certainly. Fei’nur is not… exceptionally diplomatic, but useful if the_ ** _other_** _side is less than diplomatic. I should bring one of the Warrants as well, if I am treating them as warrant officers. Nah’dur will never forgive being left behind. Will will keep in command in my absence… I’ll ask Imra if she has any she’d nominate for the experience from her crew as well. Fera’xero can’t eat the food… I’ll let the Chiefs pick one of their number, remember,_ ** _intent_** _, Zhen!_

  


Two and a half hours later, Zhen’var had assembled her entourage in the transporter room--mostly. Stasia and Chief Rajia Kerandit, the later a bluish Dorei man, arrived by selection just before Elia came in, leading Arterus and Daria. Fei’nur was already waiting, and Commander Imra had encouraged her to bring Ca’elia, saying the woman had a good bearing for such an event. Nah’dur was dawdling somewhere, since she hadn’t showed up yet.

_Just because you are my half-sister, Nah’dur, that does not give you license to be tardy!_

“Lieutenants, Colonel, Chiefs. Everyone looked over the quick  _British Mess Etiquette_  pamphlet sent along with your instructions?”

“Yes,” generally came a list of affirmations.

“Never been to anything fancy like this, Captain,” Stasia murmured. “Closest thing to it was ceremonial feasts back home.”

Before Zhen’var could reply, Nah’dur came running into the transporter room, and then climbed up onto a spare pad without a word, looking innocent while she breathed hard.

“Surgeon-Commander, have  _you_  reviewed your etiquette pamphlet, now that you have decided to join us?” She was smiling, even as she delivered the gentle rebuke.

“Oh, ah, well, keep my back stiff and use a fork and knife!”

Zhen’var gave her ship’s doctor a  _look_. It was  _not_  an approving one. “If you have not reviewed the pamphlet, Surgeon-Commander, are you  _certain_  you are ready for this meeting?”

Nah’dur straightened crisply to attention. “Battlemaster, I am prepared to comport myself.” The sting had clearly hurt, particularly in public.

Zhen’var gave her a long, searching look, before she gave a single nod and turned towards the transporter operator. “When you are ready, beam us down.” Zhen’var’s expression didn’t show the slight twinge of guilt she felt at reprimanding her half-sister like that, but Nah’dur was still rather…  _unpolished_. She  _was_  young.

“Aye-aye, Captain!” The transporter operator looked like he was trying to hide a grin as they vanished. Whatever they would think of it, Zhen’var’s sharp dressing down of her sister was going to make  _waves._

The last thing he saw as the team flashed out of existence was his captain’s glowering look of disapproval aimed at  _his_  grin.

  


After the usual pleasantries on the surface, they were taken in seized Daimler aircars to the old Wehrmacht Hauptquartier in Saackenweld. A Brigadier in British mess dress, of a mixed ethnicity similar to Goodenough’s, British to the core, stood with a group of three Colonels and two Majors, including Sara, with escorts and guards standing by. Likewise standing at the reception line was a group of eleven men in Reich formal civilian dress.

“Captain Zhen’var,” he presented his hand, “and officers of the  _Huáscar,_ welcome to Drachenfeldt. I am Brigadier Peacham and, according to someone in the Alliance who thought it a good idea, I am the Governor of Drachenfeldt.”

One could, in fact, see a slightly portly man of a vaguely Slavic extraction grimace at the words. He was dark-bearded with a hint of gray, at the head of the group in attendance, which was unsurprisingly all-male. The Reich had enforced gender roles even among its subject nations it had seen fit to allow to live.

Giving her own gloved hand as she stood to attention, Zhen’var gave them a thin smile. “A pleasure, Brigadier Peacham. May I present Colonel Fei’nur, head of my Marines and Security detachments, Commander Saumarez, my Operations officer, Lieutenant Seldayiv, tactical officer, Lieutenant tr'Rllaillieu, astrogation officer, Lieutenant Ca’elia, helmswoman of the  _Heermann_ , Chief Warrant Officer Héen, and Senior Chief Petty Officer Kerandit.”

“ _Officers,_ ” he said after a moment, and allowed a small smile. “Colonels Roberson, Tirulipatti, and Ferazad. Majors Haraway and Acharya. And, to our left, President Ivan Alferov of the Bulgarian National Council, with the extraordinary committee of the National Council.”

Zhen’var nodded politely to each of the officers, before giving a polite “Your Excellency.” to President Alferov. This certainly  _felt_  fraught enough, and they’d barely even started.

“Captain,” he replied, staring sharply at the aliens, herself included, for a moment.

“This way, please,  _Offiziere und Herren_ ,” the maître d'hôtel bowed deeply and precisely. They were shown to their seats according to rank, keeping Peacham, Zhen’var and the ‘President’ close together.

The table was expansively laid with fish, shrimp and mutton, curries and kedgeree. It was  _not_ what one would expect of traditional British cuisine, but the British Stellar Union was a radically different land. It was served with wheat bread, but roti and gurung were the styles, not western loafs. Perhaps the most familiar touch was the pot of  _something_ next to the bread that looked suspiciously like Marmite instead of an Indian chutney, and the extensive use of peas in the curries and the presence of kippers and jellied eels amongst the hors d'oeuvre, or the mutton being served with mint sauce.

It was a bittersweet reminder of home for Zhen’var, one she didn’t dare let any of their hosts recognize.

“Captain,” Ivan began. “I’ve heard that you Dilgar fought a very famous war yourselves, were defeated, but have lately survived and recovered -- everyone knows of the assault on Welthauptstadt Germania, it will live on as a great gesture, many of the liberated nations shall remember it fondly.” While he spoke, the Bulgarian man was ladling shrimp and salmon into a roti which he then covered in Raita for the want of sour cream, and finishing his sentence, began to eat with gusto. From the sommelier’s wine selections he was downing a Lechthaler from the Trentino.

“The war is very famous in our home universe, at least, sir. It is part of our recovery to pay such dues in blood as fate deems required.” Her voice was quiet, as she carefully assembled a plate for herself, small selections of most of the meat dishes adorning it when she was finished.

“I think your national reconstruction is quite well along, Captain!”

He looked like he wished to rise with his wine glass, and Brigadier Peacham quickly tinged his glass and avoided the  _faux pas_ for his officers by rising first. “The Queen.”

Zhen’var led her officers in responding to the Loyal Toast, as was proper, even if it was  _doubly_  strange for her. She was also next in rank and would need to propose the next toast.

She rose, catching herself before starting with ‘Warmaster’, and spoke calmly; “President Morgan.”

They began the table. Ivan Alferov finally had his chance, and rose, but had composed himself, instead of a more informal slavic toast, what followed was impressive bombast. “To the Bulgarian National Liberation Movement!” There was a moment of nervous silence as the allied officers tried to figure out how to respond to it. Before they could, he simply continued talking.

“Comrades, allies, friends of the Bulgarian Nation, who have been so cruelly oppressed by the savage and barbaric, the merciless  _Nemski,_ today we stand on the edge of the Dawn! This world, which the Nazis call Drachenfeldt and which we shall call Nowo-Apraxin, shall be the new home of the Bulgarian people! Here shall we remember Tarnovo and Sofiya in our construction, and become the natural home of the Bulgarian nation in exile.  _Nazdráve,_ comrades!” He raised his glass and drank. And drank.

He wasn’t finished as he refilled his wine from a carafe on the table. “Soon the Bulgarian nation shall join other races like the Gersallians and Dorei as a full member of the Alliance, here where we will obtain our natural and full development. The mines of this world are our natural path to economic sovereignty and prosperity and our inherent and sovereign mineral wealth will allow all of our pensioners to enjoy vacations throughout the Alliance and other natural aspirations of the Bulgarian people to the style of life from which they have for so long been cruelly denied. Bulgarian arms, like those of our brave Dilgar friends, will become renowned throughout the Multiverse, and we shall again propagate the Orthodox faith to our brothers far and wide, and renew the true Christian Church!”

 _Why, Almighty, why did he just have to_ ** _keep talking_** _…?_ Zhen’var’s expression had frozen into a polite smile. She had expected the bombast… but there were  _multiple_  other groups on this  _planet_  that might object.

Elia had a perfectly frozen smile on her face that matched her Captain’s. Nah’dur looked like she was fascinated in a disturbingly clinical sense. Perhaps Fei’nur was the least bothered, the Colonel not understanding why there was anything  _wrong_ with what the President was doing or saying!

After the dinner was over, Peacham approached Zhen’var as she wandered away from the table, the Bulgarians slowly being herded away in their drunken boisterousness. “Captain, one of the reasons I brought you here was to see the situation in the flesh -- my problem is that, to be quite frank, Alferov’s  _Panteri,_ panthers, the paramilitaries of the Bulgarian National Council, could easily overwhelm my division.”

“I am concerned that  _any_  of the planetary groups, with how many weapons have gone missing, could cause a disasterous reverse, Brigadier. We should perhaps bring Colonel Fei’nur into this discussion. It will be her that, I think, your request will fall heaviest upon?”

“Certainly, Captain, that’s her, correct?” He pointed to Fei’nur. “I confess I’m not familiar with your people, but the look of a veteran is clear enough.”

“A long service veteran up from the ranks, she is. The only of us here who  _fought_  in that war Alferov mentioned, and has gone through hells darker than I want to imagine to stand here today.”

Peacham nodded with a quiet recognition, stepping forward with Zhen’var. “Colonel Fei’nur. Glad to make your acquaintance. Your Captain and I were just discussing some operational matters.”

“Brigadier.” She stiffened momentarially to attention, before returning to her previous posture. “A Marine deployment is in the offing, Captain?”

“Perhaps worse than that, Colonel. The situation is most poor. Please, continue, Brigadier.”

“Alferov’s paramilitaries alone have enough strength to overwhelm us, Colonel. But their preoccupation is with the ‘Rejuvenation Society’, the Japanese paramilitaries who have seized the planet’s mines. In particular the entire contents of a major reserve depot called Grunwald 9 were seized by the Rejuvenation Society. I can’t realistically get Alferov to disarm until the Rejuvenation Society has been disarmed, so I’d like to use your battalion to search the mining districts near Grunwald 9 for caches of arms.”

“It puts small groups of my people in position to be overwhelmed, Brigadier. I would need to come down in force, and it  _will_  anger the local populace. Beyond the usual atrocities and retribution that accompany any situation as this. They will resist my efforts and refuse our authority. You still wish me to try, however, by your expression…?”

“We have no choice if we are to keep the peace, Colonel. If you could land as soon as is practical, tomorrow, perhaps?”

Fei’nur’s expression was glum, as she nodded. “Let me give them a good breakfast before we beam down, then. Captain, I’ll need all the heavy equipment we have, and can replicate. Armour is critical to suppressing overt resistance.” She paused, and went on with the air of a woman resigned. “At least until they start firing anti-tank missiles.”

  
  
  


The next day around 1100  _Huáscar_ time, the transporters began landing troops and gear, with the transports bringing in certain heavy equipment unsuited for transport behind them. The Marine battalion had only three companies, but with various specialist troops from the  _Huáscar_ ’s FMF, Fei’nur could fill out the rank table of a full battalion. Supporting them was a company of Security personnel, wearing the Navy BDUs rarely seen in the less formal service.

She was still thinking dark thoughts at how utterly  _stupid_  this idea was, heading down with the first waves to set up the perimeter for the transports - the Security troops would follow later, though the ad-hoc nature of the full ground deployment made her grind her teeth. The old veteran felt like she was being thrown to the sabre-cats by the ‘garrison’ of the planet, and she used that term  _very_ loosely.

The transports quickly set down the full complement of twelve cruiser tanks which were carried in the holds during war fit, but weren’t even necessarily part of the regular peacetime equipment. They had no others, though there was a scouting company of twenty-eight heavy armoured cars and a fire support section of six self-propelled railguns capable of firing smart submunition projecting shells.

As they moved out to establish their first-line perimeter from the landing zone, one of the companies was assigned to set their positions along a rail corridor. Traditional railways were still highly efficient for things like ore hauling, and that’s exactly what the Reich was using them for in this case.

The light utility trucks they used for general mobility, and the hover-cars for forward reconnaissance, went zooming down the roads with their heavy repeating pulse rifles and automatic mortars crewed. Giant mountains loomed around them, while the terrain itself featured rolling hills opening into wider valleys, with deep-cut valleys into the rock covered mostly in trees ahead, though several vicious yellow scars from mine tailings were well-visible.

It hadn’t been but five minutes or ten when Fei’nur’s omnitool flashed an urgent incoming message. “Colonel, this is Sergeant Waters, First Scouting Element.” Jessica Waters had been one of the rare soldiers as  _Corporal_ Waters on the  _first Huáscar_ who had not merely followed Zhen’var into exile, but followed her to her new command as well. “You need to see this, Sir. It’s… Bad.”

“I have some suspicions. In person, or via the tool, Sergeant?” Fei’nur was already remembering some of the very many horrible things they already could have stumbled upon.  _Probably bodies. The question is how displayed, in a way that would disturb a combat veteran._

“There’s no need to turn it into a theatre,” Sergeant Waters answered after a moment. She tapped her omnitool a few times, and projected the image so Fei’nur could see it as a hologram on her own.

It clearly showed a line of at least dozens of decapitated bodies, strung from the catenary towers of the railway line. They were hung upside down with razor wire by the ankles, with the heads on the ground below them and large quantities of blood, suggesting they’d been beheaded in place. Placards with an unfamiliar script--no, it was recognisable, the script of the Japanese and her old Warmaster’s great rival--marked each corpse.

The old Colonel’s lips curled. “We’ll use drones to cut them down, and use the earthmover attachments to at least bury them in a mass grave. The archives are all that needs to keep seeing this. It’s clearly begun - the strife I was dreading. Keep your perimeters tight, everyone.  _Nobody_  can be presumed friendly here.”  _It’s always the same._  Fei’nur growled as she cleared the holo-display, the auto-translator helpfully giving her the text the local guerrillas had intended to provide an example.

“ _This German Defiled Japanese Womanhood”_

_“This German Killed Japanese Youth”_

_“Rejuvenation of Society shall come in blood!”_

_“Let us all join in the national reconstruction.”_

The bloodletting had begun, and now Fei’nur intended to keep her people  _out_  of it. Finding arms caches came second to avoiding the quicksand this situation could become, very, very quickly. Still, she had orders, as she gathered her forces into scratch battle groups.

  
  


The next component of the operation required actually meeting with the miners. It had been straightforward enough for Zhen’var to agree to direct Fei’nur to use operational latitude in her approach. Disarming those who were armed was done when they agreed to it, or when they were dead, nothing more.

Battle armor was not exceptionally diplomatic, but it was something Fei’nur would  _never_  go without in a hostile situation… unless she was invisible, and that was  _difficult_  to reconcile with a diplomatic meeting.

The mining town was stark, simple buildings built of clapboard, tin metal, wood and a little bit of handmade stonework. Company stories and processing facilities. Dust everywhere. And barricades with rising sun flags blocking their direct approach by road or rail. The town had no names on the maps, just  _O. Targonoff Company Town No.17,_ the property of someone other than its inhabitants, even the name of its owner twisted to fit German expectations. But now the inhabitants were armed, and they had some idea of their use, from the way positions were emplaced covering the barricades from three angles. The company commander under Fei’nur, Captain Gei’fuor, quickly brought her troops to a halt and prepared to set her dispositions. “We can break through it easily enough, but it will require a set-piece assault to breach, Colonel.” The Dilgar mind still turned instinctively toward dealing with the problem directly. The old Empire days were not quite gone from the heart.

“It will, but we aren’t going to assault. No Dilgar blood for someone  _else’s_ future colony. Get me two volunteers, one with a truce flag, another with the Alliance flag. Set your troops in covering positions, though go ahead and draw up the assault plans. I’m going to go try and talk to some brave and stubborn men over there.” Her eyes were narrowed through her visor as she breathed through the filters that covered the bottom part of her face.

“Understood, Battlemaster!” A flashed salute, and the positions were laid out. Two volunteers came forward, with quickly improvised flagpoles, reported to Fei’nur, one Dilgar and one human.

“If they start shooting, pop your personal shields and  _fall back into cover_ , understood? No heroes for scraps of cloth against this lot. Keep far enough back to not be in the same fire-lines as I. Any questions?” Her mind flashed ahead, as Fei’nur wanted to grit her teeth at the sheer idiocy of this entire  _plan_.

“Understood, Colonel!” Flashed salutes, the Marines weren’t about to give them over, and they headed forward under cover.

At first there was no response from the lines of the miners. The two soldiers with their flags stood there, utterly exposed, for two, maybe three minutes. And then a man wearing a hachimaki and miners’ overalls stepped forward with a rifle slung at his shoulder, carrying his own Japanese banner, and walked out to meet them.

Fei’nur stood there in the open, daring to let her rank flashes show in the active camouflage paint upon her armor, her own rifle slung the entire time. A single, sharp bow of the head was the most politeness she would give, in an  _attempt_  to put the locals at ease.

A second man stepped out. Burly, his hair still dark, he went right for Fei’nur, and stopped ten paces away.

“I am Colonel Fei’nur of the Alliance. What is the name of your village, and who am I talking to?” Her question was level, if wary.

“We call this place Matsuo, alien Colonel,” he replied. “I am Haikyo Jun, the Chairman of the Rejuvenation Society for Matsuo. Why do you come to our town, Colonel?”

“I am to keep order in these areas, and attempt to arrange  _mutual_  disarmament of heavy weapons between yourselves and the Bulgarian movement.”  _Which is not exactly my orders, but those orders will get me shot with a grenade launcher if inflexibly applied._

“Colonel, you doubtless have your orders,” he answered. “However, understand that we have paid for this land in the blood of our fathers, our grandfathers, our sons and brothers, who have died in these mines, and in our daughters and sisters and wives and mothers who have been poisoned here and died. Their blood is in this ground, they are interred in this ground, their spirits are in this ground. They have bought it for us. We no longer have Japan, but here we may be Japanese, honour our ancestors, and restore our traditions. This is what our toil has won, we will not ever concede it to the Bulgarians.”

“I… wasn’t asking you to.” Fei’nur blinked, visibly confused. “Gods, if they’d tried to take our factories and housing blocks from us, we’d have taken up arms just like you have. I’m just trying to help keep more people who  _don’t_  deserve it from dying. That’s all.”

“This is exactly what the Bulgarians want! Here, we are Japanese, we want lands enough for our people and these mines,” he thundered sharply, now. “Tell the Bulgarians we will partition fairly the lands of the Germans. We are free. We will not take orders from your Alliance, we have not fought you, we have not been defeated by you. We will protect our homes and grow strong with them. That is our terms. The Bulgarians have cut off our supply of food and would starve us into being their slaves! If you do not send us food, or they do not, we will have to take it from the villages around us. That is just the truth, Colonel.”

“Humanitarian aid is something I can  _request._ I’m not giving you orders, but my troops won’t be leaving, either. Is this understood and fair to your thinking?” Fei’nur was trying to cogitate as quickly as she  _could_  to keep the lid on the boiling tension.

“I am stating facts,” Jun answered, and folded his arms impassively. “We will not be denied food. Stay out of our towns, Colonel. We are a free people now, and we will not give that up.”

“You would be…” Fei’nur trailed off, and shook her head. “Your words are noted, and will be passed on.” The veteran Colonel gave a sharp, shallow bow and turned to depart.  _The situation gets messier and messier..._

  
  
  
  


Zhen’var had at least had an entire week of uninterrupted sleep when the call came from the surface. It flashed on her red priority channel and shook her awake in her cabin in the middle of the ship’s night, the light side of Drachenfeldt below her, but the view blanked out to give her a pitch-black rest.

Letting out a softly grumpy noise, she rolled far enough to flick on a dim light, blinking furiously as her eyes tried to adjust, pulling on a uniform jacket and yanking her hair back into order with rough quickness. Only then did she acknowledge the message. “ _Huáscar_ Actual, go ahead.”

“Captain Zhen’var.” It was Brigadier Peacham. “We’ve had an urgent, and concerning development. There’s a local holonet broadcast on the H-band, 22Mhz frequency, which is coming from an unknown vessel at sea. They’re using moon bouncing to reach their immediate vicinity  _and_ a large part of the planet, and it seems they’re broadcasting propaganda associated with the Internal Apraxin Revolutionary Organisation, IARO, which is an extremist splinter group from the Bulgarian National Council.”

Zhen'var grimaced, her expression darkening. “So the incitement has begun, then? We will have to move against the transmissions, of course, quietly. A moment, Brigadier.” She paused, then pressed her comms key for the intercom. “Captain to bridge. There is someone on the planet below broadcasting an incitement to mass violence via lunar reflection down below. We need it stopped,  _now_.”

“We’ve got the broadcast,” Will answered a moment later, having already ordered the science officer on duty to pull it. “Do you want to see it, Captain? We’re trying to localise it now.”

“Go ahead and feed it down here, Commander. I might as well see how bad it is.” She forced herself out of her chair to replicate a cup of chai, hope of more sleep now truly lost.

The broadcast was impressive in its hokey authenticity, considering the bleak subject matter. A green flag with a yellow lion rampant, faced hoist, flashed on the screen, the flag emblazoned with the words in Bulgarian cyrillic “Liberty or Death”. Images of beautiful mountains covered in trees in summer flashed by and were replaced with a recording of a band with an accordion, drums and several string instruments. A man was singing. Everyone was wearing a balaclava.

“Bulgarian people, arise from your slumber…”

“...As long as there is Apraxin, Bulgars shall exist..”

The song faded into what looked like a news broadcast being run entirely by people in balaclavas and camo fatigues. This part actually looked live. “This is a News Broadcast of the Resistance Force of the Internal Apraxin Revolutionary Organisation! Comrades, Bulgarians, Christians, tonight we read the truth of resistance.”

The man had a rifle on his desk as a prop as he spoke, and he kept one hand lovingly on the barrel shroud. “The incredible defeat of the Nemski has removed forever the notion of Reich invincibility. Right now we are praying for the Christian evangelism of the Nemski, who were subjugated by the precursor of the Anti-Christ, Adolf Hitler himself. A restoration of Christian civilisation generally is absolutely necessary in general and on Apraxin in particular if we are to successfully resist the impetus of the Asiatics, who even now are seizing the legitimate property of the Bulgarian nation.”

“Nowo Apraxin is absolutely critical as the legitimate homeland of the Bulgarian nation, to allow our natural, national restoration. The wealth represented on this world will allow us to become a great nation among the Multiverse, and must be stoutly defended. Recall, too, that asiatics have a natural lust for white women and the power the treasonous miners have gained by seizing Reich arms is a severe threat to our civilisation and womanhood. Unless the Alliance moves immediately to restore Bulgarian control of the mines, extreme measures will be required! Nemski, be reminded that we are fellow Europeans, return to God, and understand that the protection of your daughters as well is a sacred charge of Christian Bulgarian manhood. If you respect our rights to Nowo Apraxin, due consideration for your survival and prosperity will be taken into account.” He held the rifle up with one hand and shook it. “If you do not, it will be impossible for the manhood of the Bulgarian nation to protect your daughters from the Japanese! You will know the shame of being helpless unless you submit yourselves to our rule!”

Zhen’var turned the feed off. She’d seen enough. “Will, has there been any luck localizing the transmission?”

“No, Captain, it’s coming from a large cluster of fishing boats working the same grounds. Because they’re bouncing it off the moon--that’s an old trick--it’s too broad band to identify the exact transmission source in the group. I did however ask that Chief Héen organise a reconnaissance. She chose to scramble the alert fighters for a closer look.”

“Understood. They will probably have gone to ground by then, but there is a chance we will get lucky.”

Lar’shan usually took the alert lead on the night shift to set a good example for the rest of his pilots so they could actually get some sleep during the normal ship’s night. Ironically, this had already led to his being scrambled, since crises seemed to like to evolve on the  _Huáscar_ in the middle of the night, following some ancient rule of the universe that trouble woke people up from a well-earned slumber.

They dove through the atmosphere in fifteen minutes, Stasia’s slightly warbling and high but cute voice guiding them in. “All right, you’re fifty klicks off the bank at five klicks asl, heading two-three-niner. Go ahead and drop down to one klick asl and prepare your pass, PriFly Actual over.”

“Copy PriFly Actual, this is WC-50 Actual, we are descending and will make a left bank around Point Echo. Infrared cameras on.”

Circling the position, the footage was being broadcast directly to the  _Huáscar_ and resolved into a digital, three-dimensional image of each of the trawlers. As each georeferenced point in the orbit of the fighters was correlated relative to each other, a full three-dimensional model of each of the trawlers was constructed by the computers on the starship.

Ensign Oulata in the science department was on duty, and immediately processed the images through standard recognition databanks. The cross-correlation produced nothing. There were no unusual antennae or broadcasts.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he reported to Will. “The models are good, but it doesn’t matter. The power draw is the same as the other trawlers and there’s no unusual antennae on any of them. We can’t localise the signal.”

“Lords,” Will sighed. “I’m sorry, Captain, but no dice.”

  
  


Rolling through the valleys, most of the eyes were pointed up, beyond being on swivels. An ambush from top down was always the worst. The hovercars zipped up and down the side slopes while the wheeled vehicles rolled fast down the road, heading toward the next village. The flocks of sheep fled from their approach across the fields marked by wooden fences across steep hillsides. Here and there, a herdsman on horseback or a shepherd boy looked down at the rolling convoy. It was summer, and rich red dust was rolling out behind them from the tyres as the pintle gunners sat uneasy at their mounts.

Jessica Waters was commanding the platoon, since the “scratch” nature of their fourth company made them short on officers. She appreciated the fact Fei’nur trusted her as one of the sergeants with a platoon command in exigencies. Certainly she had never expected to be taking orders from a Dilgar. Fei’nur was as rough and gruff as the worst old GROPOS gunny she could remember, but was a good mustang and remembered where she came from and trusted her and the other human NCOs, if anything a little more than her own.

Unfortunately there was no time for reminiscence. The scene she had witnessed the day before was graphic proof of how dangerous the situation was that kept her platoon hot and ready. The radio crackled every few seconds with a new report from the outriders or the IED detection wheeled drones rolling ahead of the vehicles. The utter  _medieval_ nature of the scene around them bothered her, too. Other than the line of fibre-optic and power transmission wire quaintly suspended from wooden poles alongside the road, it looked like a fantasy novel instead of a modern colonial society. To Jess, who grew up with domes, the very human geography was deeply unsettling, right down to the packed dirt her column roared up toward the village of Ticha.

The town was made of crofter’s homes of rock, wood and thatch. There was a small clinic of the Health Department of the  _Reichsministerium für Volksaufklärung und Propaganda_ and a grander building marked  _Reichspost -- Hilfsbüro Esläuft._ The signs to the town had been marked Ticha in Bulgarian and  _Esläuft_ in German--the Reich had not even permitted their subject peoples uncontested rights to name their villages. A pub or drinking hall and a few shops, barely grander than the houses, rounded the place out. It had perhaps seven hundred inhabitants.

“They have a post office?” One of Jess’ soldiers asked incredulously.

“Yeah, subject races were banned from using their extranet to keep it pure and Aryan, so they provided an ‘auxiliary post’ for them,” the driver shouted up.

“Damnit, Jackson, you’re some kind of nerd.”

Around the now halted column a large number of townspeople had gathered. Sergeant Waters hopped down from the IFV and flipped up the goggles on her helmet. The universal translator handled Bulgarian well enough. “People of Ticha, we are Alliance soldiers who have arrived to restore order after the defeat of the Nazi Reich.”

“Heil  _Allianz_!” One of them shouted with a crisp Hitler salute. Many others followed the gesture, almost instinctually. “Thank you for rescuing us from our tormentors!”

Jess saw one of her troopers flinch visibly at the symbology, but she knew that the villagers just didn’t know any other way to greet foreign troops, and would have been in hot shit if they hadn’t saluted for an SS column rolling through, so why not salute for the Alliance that had liberated them? “Thank you. We will be assessing your needs and moving up the road tomorrow. We’ll make camp outside of town on the north side,” she explained.

A couple of men stepped forward, exchanging glances. It wasn’t hard to figure out they weren’t used to women in positions of authority in the military. One of them was an Orthodox Priest, the others slightly more prosperous versions of the mass, shopkeepers perhaps. The Priest spoke. “Shall the livelihoods or faith of the village be altered, Ma’am?”

“Absolutely not! We will, however, provide food and medical assistance, if required.”

“Medical treatment?” One of the men in the crowd dared to scoff. “That is what the Germans promise us, but our children just get sick and die, all we have is prayer to Holy God!”

 _Children get sick and die…_ Jess grimaced. “May I see?” Glancing back. “Corpsman to the front on the double! PO Symonds,” she added, addressing the one science rating from Fera’xero’s department, embedded into the platoon for analytics on the surface, “get your sensors running. Atmospherics.”

“Understood, Sergeant!” Over the next ridge was one of the largest strip mines they’d ever seen, after all, with warrens of tunnels extending deeper in from it.

Jess and Ger’ahn, the corpsman, went forward together to where a group of children were being kept away from the others. They looked  _horrible,_ malnourished and sickly, a couple coughing with disturbing substances coming from their lungs. The medical scanners required only seconds.

“Atmospheric heavy metals poisoning, Ma’am,” he said flatly. “They’re as bad off as I was as a kit, except they’ll just keep getting worse from this instead of reaching a homeostasis like we do with the spores.”

“Yeah, I thought so. We need a medical team with a Doctor down here, don’t we?” The sheer magnitude of the problem was starting to dawn on her.

“Yes Ma’am. Probably every down-wind village, too.”

“I’ll comm Commander Saumarez.”

  
  
  
  


The next day, a request for a meeting by CWO Héen flashed onto Zhen’var’s calendar. The commander of the small craft support operations was not a common visitor to the Captain’s office, though she had certainly been fully willing to bring concerns before, with her forthright practicality as a former merchant mariner.

She tapped ‘approved’, fitting her just before lunch, wondering just what the Air Boss wanted to bring up.  _If this is the start of my ideas bearing fruit, I shall take it. She always seemed a skilled sort, one of the founding cadre of the Alliance._

Anastasia arrived for the meeting in her light blue flying corps uniform, crisp with the pinned-up blouse, and hair pulled back in a long braid. “Captain, thank you for seeing me so quickly.”

“No issue, Chief. Sit, please. Replicator is yours if you wish anything. I admit, we have not talked very often, what is this about?” Her voice was querulous, not sharp.

“Well,” she took a cup of coffee, and smiled faintly. “I want to go to the surface. The fishing boats were operating out of a town called St. Mark of Apraxin, and I think I can find out from the local community, or with their help identify who is behind the broadcasts. I’m a fisherwoman myself, owned my own purse seiner in the past. And though I’m lapsed from the faith, I was raised Orthodox. I can speak their language in a cultural sense. That’s going to be the only way to crack this, and I want to, I have tools that are useful and I can help stop a genocide from starting on our watch.”

Zhen’var leaned back, face inscrutable as she considered the idea. “It is commendable initiative, Chief, and while I am wary, I support the intent of the idea. You will lead the team.”

“A team, Captain? Well, very well; I don’t really want to end up dead,” she answered back, a hair wryly, and sipped her coffee. “We should have a science officer and a portable sensor pack in case we end up trailing them at sea.”

“Agreed. A Mha’dorn as well? Security with an NCO, I think?” She was asking, not ordering, phrasing suggestions in that way.

“All right, a security squad and a Mha’dorn officer as well. That makes… Eleven of us. Quite the little troupe, though,” she frowned. “Well. I guess it’s needed considering the opposition we might face, and it will look more like an assistance group, then. Yes, that will do, Captain. By your permission?”

  
“So granted, Chief. Good luck in your first detached command.” Her eyes gleamed, in that sort of way that implied the Captain was  _plotting_  something.


	2. Act 2

**Act 2**

  
  


Arriving on the surface, Stasia beamed down to St. Mark of Apraxin with Ensign Kel’dar, a Mha’dorn working as an ops officer. With them was a security detachment of eight under PO Arvarez and Ensign Oulata, an Alakin science officer. As a CWO in the Alliance system, Stasia could issue orders to non-command-grade commissioned officers when so-assigned, as was the case now, but it didn’t make her particularly happier about the situation since it seemed like too many people in general. 

On foot with backpacks and battle harnesses, they made an immediate stir. People arrived by transporter  _ rarely  _ in St. Mark of Apraxin, and some of the old folk crossed themselves. The dirt streets ran down the hills into the cove, laid out with trawlers and inshore fishers at anchor, nets and traps out to dry. Combined with the Orthodox Church prominently at the centre of the town, it actually seemed a little like home. Stasia had them wearing the Surface Weather Conditions Covering (SWCC), a fancy name for a greatcoat over their Navy BDUs that were intended as camo away team dress, but the  _ kepi  _ option instead of a helmet to reflect the intended lack of combat risk. With a chill air coming in off the sea the coat was appreciated. 

Based on local intelligence, there was an ‘Outlanders Hotel’ close to the Church, and Stasia started wandering that way. Alongside of it were a series of Ship’s Chandlers and a couple of General Stores, the fish processing plant was located on the edge of town and a row of restaurants and bars led from it to the centre of town--pretty typical. The usual Reich-run Health Department office and Reichspost were overt signs of the government’s presence, with the more ominous one being that St. Mark of Apraxin was big enough to warrant a Gestapo office which was still marked by an Eagle clutching a Swastika close to the local police headquarters. There had been surveillance cameras, but their poles were all ripped down and the cameras themselves stolen or smashed.

There was a small bike and car repair shop next to a building identifying itself as the hotel, with a second hotel further down. A group of men were working under a few rigged lights, rewiring and soldering connections to make the fuel cells on an old model Volkswagen work again, drinking beers and stealing glances at a soccer match being broadcast from the capitol. 

“Hej, guys, the Allianz has come!” One of them shouted, spying Stasia and her team. A crowd quickly started gathering. 

Stasia couldn’t help but tense. Most of the population was beat-down, old before their time. Not completely unlike her little hardscrabble village, frankly, a fact she didn’t much like to think of. A few of the merchants took great pride in their clothes, but most did not have the money for that. There was a priest, though, descending from the steps of the church. 

“Alliance soldiers, why have you come?” 

“Father, bless,” Anastasia Héen answered formally, and bowed, the priest giving her an instant opportunity to make some friends. “Father, we’re sailors, we’re here as part of an assistance program to help with the fishing yields. National reconstruction!” She saw the plump woman in formal old Bulgarian national costume who approached at the priest’s side, clearly his wife, and bowed again. “ _ Matushka _ .”

“Has the National Council approved your assistance?” The Priest asked suspiciously, though he was astonished at her correctness, and the unfamiliar word seemed to spark a flicker of surprise.

“What do you know about fishing!?” Someone in the crowd shouted. 

“Yes, they are aware, Father,” Stasia answered, and crossed herself. “I have skippered a trawler myself. Please, Father, we’re just here to help.”

“...You’re Orthodox?” the priest asked in some surprise. “The Alliance is godless sodomites, atheists, aliens,” he muttered. 

“Father, I was raised in the Russian Orthodox Church,” Stasia answered levelly, ignoring words she had certainly heard before. 

“The Russian Orthodox Church.... Now there is a name I have not heard but whispered.” He prepared to bless her, and Stasia, knowing well the forms, formed her hands in the shape of a cross, and kissed the hand of the priest when he blessed her. “You are not Russian, though.” 

“I am Tlingit, Father. Our people were evangelized by Russia, we are American indigenous.” 

“A Red Indian!” One of the well-dressed men in the crowd shouted. “Dear God, I saw a documentary on State Television about the Wildlife preserves in Wisconsin once! But, My God, she is Orthodox, and wears clothes!”

The priest turned sharply toward the man. “Stepan Stepanovich, this woman is a baptised Christian! The Reich spoke  _ lies  _ about other humans!” He laughed broadly and stroked his beard. “Not only that, but I think she wants to stay in your hotel! Child, what is your name?”

“ _ Offizierstellvertreter _ Anastasia Héen, Father,” she answered promptly, her back stiff but a grin now lighting up inside of herself. It had worked. And she was about to make the man who had said those words  _ very  _ uncomfortable. 

The priest smiled broadly. “Miss Héen, welcome to Saint Mark of Apraxin. Our town is humble, but we will be thankful for your aid. We have received no help from the central government at all, and the Gestapo officers fled two weeks ago to go surrender to the Britischers in the capitol. Is it so, child, that there is freedom for the Orthodox faith in the Alliance?”

“It is so, Father.”

“God be praised! Stepan Stepanovich, show her officers and men to the finest rooms.” 

“My God, Father, please, the Reich, I shall lose my certificate of German lodging and I shall never get it back!” The man exploded into desperate action, running up to the Priest and bowing. “I cannot have a Red Indian and Aliens in a hotel approved for lodging by Aryans, it will ruin me forever! They will never let me get it back! My family has maintained that certificate for two generations!” 

“Stepan, child,” the Priest said with a cold chuckle and a glint in his eye. “God be praised, for the Reich is never coming back.  _ Let them in your Inn,  _ or you will never have customers again.” Then he looked to Stasia. “I am Father Aleksandar. Trust that tonight you will not be troubled, the men of our village have rifles now. We are now strong, and shall remain so, and greet you in Orthodox brotherhood.”

That didn’t necessarily actually make Stasia feel any better, considering what her mission was, but she bowed again. “Thank you, Father Aleksandar. We are glad to be in Saint Mark of Apraxin.” As they walked to the hotel, men laughed at Stepan Stepanovich and cursed him, while he pretentiously held his back straight and rubbed the waxed ends of his mustache. He was not a popular man in the town.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The hotel was certainly sumptuous by local, rural standards, though it was no Ritz. Unsurprisingly, Stepan claimed that he had no food for preparing a breakfast, and with uniforms and arms, Stasia led her people to the waterfront cafes, some built on pilings over the water. 

“Don’t you have magic food that comes out of the air?” The short-order woman behind the counter asked wryly when they came in. 

“Still prefer the real thing,” Stasia answered, “and we don’t have it here.” 

“Well, eat what you want, but follow the same limits as everyone else,” she replied. 

_ Limits.  _ Stasia looked up at the chalkboard.  _ Banitza-- _ one slice per customer. Apple--one per customer.  _ Bob chorba --  _ one bowl per customer.  _ Ribena chorba _ \-- no limit.  _ Tarator  _ \-- one bowl per customer.  _ Gubena supa _ \-- one bowl per customer.  _ Turshiya _ \-- no limit. Grilled fish -- no limit, whatever is caught.  _ Tsatsa _ \-- no limit. Drinks:  _ Boza --  _ one cup per customer.  _ Beer --  _ one bottle per customer. Traditional coffee -- one cup per customer. Chicory coffee -- no limit. 

There was nothing else on the menu. Most of her people were using their omnitools to translate as best as they could. “I’ll take an apple,  _ Gubena supa, tsatsa,  _ and coffee. My real cup, please.”

“No  _ Banitza _ ?” It was a legitimate question, seeing as it was the only typical breakfast food actually on the menu. 

“Save it for my comrades, they might not like many of the others,” Stasia grinned. “As long as you get me the coffee.” She paid for all of them, in Reichsmarks which were overprinted with the words ALLIED OCCUPATION AUTHORITY, OCCUPATION DOLLAR, and the Alliance seal. Electronic payment systems were nonfunctional and the Reich had encouraged the use of paper currency by subject races to avoid giving them large amounts of convenience technology, anyway. 

The tables were rough-hewn wood, the chairs with more artistic flair but much the same, and the only open space big enough for them was at one long table where a woman clustered with four children, likely enough two sons and two daughters. She looked to be in her sixties, with massive corded muscles and stocky, thick arms and legs, a scarf tied up over her gray hair, but wearing practical fisher’s overalls. “Do you mind if we sit, grandmother?” Stasia asked. 

“What? Oh merciful God, it is not my table to say no.” Her eyes were sharp and wide, matching those of her children. “You are Miss Héen, are you not?” 

“Yes, that’s right, who are you?” Stasia went to sit, and her food came clinking out, from the fried sprats that were tsatsa to the mushroom soup. The coffee came first. 

“Gergena Kirilova Tambovna, Officer.” She answered formally. “And these are my children. You said you would help us find more fish?” 

“Yes, but it might take time. You fish?” 

“I have a boat!” Gergena said proudly, though her face then fell. “For the past ten years I have worked it with my children, I am forty-five years old now and getting old, but when the Nazis shot my poor Anton, there was nothing else for us.” She changed the subject quickly. “You are Anastasia, yes? They said you claimed to fish.”

“I did,” Anastasia agreed. “I had a trawler, the  _ Lillian S.  _ And that is my name. Of course, these days, I am in the Navy.”

“So you are! Women could never serve in the Reich, not like it would matter to us.” She glanced around, and lowered her voice. “My daughter Alexandra, she needs to learn to fish properly,” she gestured to the eldest, who looked in the best health. “The old Gestapo commandant hired her as the file-clerk, and since the surrender, she has been out of work. Without her income, I can’t hire a hand for the boat, she’s been working it instead, but she’s not tough enough.” 

Stasia pursed her lips over her sprats, one of the two who had dared to have some--Kel’dar unsurprisingly being the other. She felt a bit like it was abusing the trust involved, but they could make sure things worked out for Gergena Kirilova. “I can sail with you first and help, Gergena?” 

Alexandra was blushing furiously at the questioning of her ability. Her mother grinned. “Don’t worry, child, the Officer will set you right soon enough. Yes, I accept.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


In trying to get a handle on the situation in the mining towns, it quickly became apparent that, in fact, Jun’s claims had been perfectly correct. There were no food supplies reaching them. The relief forces under Peacham’s control weren’t even making an attempt to get through to the towns. And that was rapidly escalating the situation viz. the Bulgarian herding community’s vulnerability to raids from the mining towns. 

“Request communication with Brigadier Peacham, please. Do tell Colonel Fei’nur, and you can quote me, ‘You were right, it will likely fall to you. Suggest planning accordingly’. At least the complete… confused mess was not  _ exploding _ , but… Zhen’var frowned visibly. “Divine save us from idiotic staff work. Let me know as soon as you have the Brigadier.”

“Brigadier Peacham on your channel, Captain.”

“Put him on, please.” She still did not have a pleased expression on her face, even if most of the frown faded before the comms image shimmered into life.

“Captain, I was told that this was urgent?” Peacham looked more than a little surprised, but serious enough at his desk. 

“The mining villages are cut off from food shipments with the ongoing unrest, Brigadier. If we do not get them some  _ very soon _ , we are going to be in a shooting war with these ‘Rejuvenation Societies’ when they go to  _ take _ it from the Bulgarian villages.”

“They’ve made that decision themselves, Captain. Standing regulations do not allow us to place relief corps personnel under the power of armed militants,” Peacham said. “The reality is they might easily kill anyone sent into their midst. Unless they submit to being disarmed, it’s simply not an option.” 

“Are you forbidding me from making the effort myself, Brigadier?” Zhen’var’s face had gone studiously blank, her voice flatly calm. “There  _ will _ be major intra-planetary conflict we  _ cannot _ contain with forces on hand if we do not solve this issue  _ now _ . They will not disarm unless the Bulgarians do, and do not consent to be governed by them.”

“If the consent of the governed mattered here, Captain, we wouldn’t be playing gaoler for the entire planet waiting for the next round of overlords to take it over,” Peacham replied grimly and with real vinegar in his voice. “Later today we do expect a private relief organisation to arrive, but they were scheduled to assist your health and wellness efforts in the Bulgarian herding villages in the Grunwald region. You can, by all means, devise a strategy to supply food to the mining towns but I certainly cannot permit regular relief corps personnel to directly place themselves under the power of the Rejuvenation Society paramilitaries.” 

“If they attack the villages, they will be under their power  _ anyhow _ , as  _ hostages _ , Brigadier. This  _ will _ boil over.” She audibly sighed. “I understand the standing orders, Brigadier. We will come up with a strategy to delay the clash, if possible. That was all, Brigadier.”

  
  
  
  


Stasia knew her fishing. Wearing her oilskins and greatcoat, she set nets and pulled them and diagnosed some broken hydraulics on the rigging gear. Respecting Gergena’s authority on her boat, the CWO had turned the voyage into a bit of a commercial fishing clinic for her own people, going over the details of every step in working the boat, and catching up on maintenance as well. By the end of the second day, she was oily and looked a bit of a mess, but looked as happy as a clam and had thoroughly won over the tough old Gergena’s children. 

To keep them going, she got Spacer Robby Larkin in the security detachment to start making stews out of the stocks onboard and their own emergency rations, and cracked open her backpack to reveal neat vacuum-sealed packages of Cafe Bustelo, the cheap Cuban espresso blend of the supermarkets of her native Earth that she had used to sustain herself honestly when poor and working her turns on trawler and ferry. It was a familiar life she was at least fond of.

Alexandra proved as able as the rest of her family to adapt to the demands of the fishing trade, under Stasia’s confident and friendly tutelage. It was nearly idyllic, if you liked hard work and honest food. Of course, that all obscured the reason they were really there, which was the discrete sensor pack that Ensign Oulata was running. 

“Chief,” he said as he approached with the sun setting. “I’ve localised the transmissions tonight to the Tamandor Bank. We’re only fifteen klicks off, and it’s a good ground too. Can we move there in the middle of the night?” 

“Just a sec,” Stasia answered, putting down her binoculars on the bridge rail and stepped into the bridge. “Gergena, can we make for the Tamandor Bank tonight?”

“Aye, we could, Stasia, it’s good ground, but pretty crowded.” A pause. “Well, you’re helping enough. I won’t ask questions.”

Stasia’s words caught in her throat. She was using this honest woman. And she knew it. “You have my word, as one fisherwoman to another,” she finally said. “Your family will be safe and prosperous.” 

There was a moment of fraught tension. Gergena knew she was being used, knew there was a military objective. “Might be nice to have a Volkswagen, too,” Gergena smiled wryly, and spun the helm over. 

_ You’ll get your Volkswagen.  _ Stasia swallowed. That wasn’t the concern...

  
  
  
  


At sea you couldn’t escape the smell of salt, and on a fishing trawler, you couldn’t escape the smell of your catch. On a hard-bitten small family trawler like this, they fried up the introduced sprats to eat the moment they caught them. There were instant potatoes to go with them for breakfast, mashed into cakes with a little wheat, and onions to toss in the fryer with the sprats. They had  _ Boza  _ and Stasia’s Cafe Bustelo from a percolator, and enough seasick pills that the spacers who had never felt a salt-water boat’s roll were able to enjoy it. 

Stasia sat in the kitchen nook, crammed into the pads on top of storage boxes which formed half the seating at the u-shaped table. Gergena was next to her with big plates before them, both exhausted and hungry. Kel’dar had stood the night watch to let them get some rest, and the bedraggled looking Dilgar was eagerly eyeing a double portion of the tsatsa. Behind Stasia’s back the chiller-compressor set looping cold glycol through lines in the fish holds was rumbling hard enough to give her a rough-hewn massage. 

“It’s almost dawn,” Alexandra said, looking at the chronometer. “Just one more day, mother?” 

“Just one more day,” Gergena agreed. “Even with the competition at Tamandor it’s rich enough ground we should be heading to home tonight. And it’s closer in-shore.” 

“What’s your space like, Anastasia?” Alexandra asked then. 

“Oh, there’s … A lot of work to do. Fighting Nazis, keeping fighter pilots from crashing into each other. I do more of the later than the former.” A grin. “Really, there’s a hundred Earths, a hundred galaxies. There’s more space than you can imagine out there, and there are beautiful sights a thousand times grander than anything else.” 

“It would be wonderful…”

“We’ll never afford that,” Gergena said flatly, and flashed a look to Stasia, appealing to get her to stop talking about space. 

Stasia smiled. “Well, looking up to the stars can be just as grand. And very useful to your navigation. Anyhow…” She re-filled her coffee. “I should get up-deck and check on my wayward Fahnrich.” She shared a laugh with Gergena and clambered up a ladder to where Ensign Oulata was running the sensor rig. 

The first rays of dawn were peeking above the horizon as she arrived. “Found anything?”

“Yeah, the morning broadcast definitely came from the bank, that group of ten trawlers over there.”

“Ten.” Stasia gritted her teeth. “Do we know  _ which one,  _ ensign?” 

“Not the slightest, Chief. Here, do you want to see the replay? I’ve got an infrared recording of them as the transmission was happening.” 

It took Stasia’s practiced eye only a moment to realise that one of the trawlers was not like the others. It was not in the appearance, there was nothing out of the ordinary about that. It was in the way she was behaving. Unlike the other trawlers, which were following the rhythms of the sea, phosphorescent krill and the operations of setting and recovering nets, she had been holding station during the dawn broadcast, in such a position that she could bounce a signal off the moon--Stasia used her omnitool to quickly confirm the angles--and reach half the world. 

Stasia smiled tightly. “That’s the one. Locate her in the current group.”

“Aye-aye, Chief.”

Next, Stasia stepped past him and inside the currently unmanned pilothouse. She reached in, having learned a few to read the key words in Bulgarian already, and turned off the Iron Mike. 

Next to her, Ensign Oulata collated the data and shot it to Fera’xero on the  _ Huáscar.  _ At a warning, Fera’xero had swung out of his quarters and moved to the primary science lab a few minutes before his shift started. Now he took the data, cross-validated, and used the uplink information from the transponder in the portable sensor to validate position relative to the  _ Huáscar,  _ and then queried five spaceport beacons on the planet for the same time period, and finally the AIS for Gergena’s trawler. At that point the mainframes handled the complicated mathematics to turn the  _ Huáscar’s  _ position, confirmed by five points on the planet, into the position of the trawler, measured by calculating the arc-length difference of only ten meters between the AIS transponder and the sensor cluster. It was enough. 

At that point they knew which trawler they were looking for, and it only required regression of the AIS tracks to identify where she was  _ now.  _ Three minutes later, Ensign Oulata returned to Stasia’s side, and visually pointed out the trawler, silhouetted in the rising sun, as their omnitools crosslinked and confirmed the position. 

“Thank you, Ensign.” Stasia adjusted her cross slightly. “Keep the Tambov family belowdecks, and get all of  _ us  _ updecks with pulse rifles locked and charged.”

Kel’dar came up to Stasia’s side as she steered the ship. He took a pair of binoculars and looked out to the deck of their target trawler, where a group of figures in their own greatcoats were hastening about. It was direct line of sight, and for Kel’dar, that was enough.

“Chief, they’re on to us! They’re bringing up and readying heavy arms.” 

“Oh  _ Christ. _ ” Stasia reached over to the throttles and threw them all forward, and brought the wheel to starboard, slewing them hard in toward the other trawler as their engines whined. As they did, she could see them swing a heavy Reich pulse cannon onto a tripod mount on the foredeck they had just erected. 

“ _ Huáscar  _ this is Chief Héen our trawler is coming under attack by crew-served weapons on the target trawler, over.” 

“Squad open fire!” Firing from their port beam, nine pulse rifles opened fire in unison. Ensign Oulata joined in with a tenth, and then Ensign Kel’dar with an eleventh. Two men rigging the heavy Reich cannon collapsed from pulse fire, and the gun toppled onto the foredeck of the enemy trawler, as her team delivered fires from the port bridge wing and the port foredeck. 

On the fantail of the Bulgarian trawler, the lion flag on green fluttered up the mast, and a sharp, crackling split of light filled the dawn’s murk. A mortar bomb rose and descended, detonating as it hit the water twenty meters off the Tambov trawler in a tremendous flare of light and plasma. The bridge windows blew out around her. 

Stasia had ducked at the flash and brought her arm up to cover her face, and it avoided any serious fragments tearing into her, the massive greatcoat covering her from most of the glass. She blinked her eyes open, and swung harder to starboard, keeping the firing lines open to the enemy trawler as sporadic rifle fire slammed into the deckhouse around her, starting fires in the paint. 

“ _ Huáscar, WE ARE TAKING FIRES, PLASMA MORTAR AND RIFLE.”  _ Stasia screamed into her omnitool’s general direction, spinning back in to port to narrow their profile. Another mortar round split the dawn’s light, and Stasia felt the heat on her right cheek. With the windows already gone, she didn’t flinch. 

“Chief Héen, this is Commander Saumarez, I have Lieutenant Seldayiv ready to beam down with a scratch team in full rig. But we need an open spot on the enemy deck or they’ll be cut to pieces when they beam in. Can you create one?” 

Stasia had always prided herself on her ability at small craft handling. “Sure. Beam them at my mark.”

“Linking you to the transporter room now,” Elia replied.

“Transporter Chief, stand by at my mark,” Stasia shouted. She threw the levers that would adjust the intermix ratio on the engines, and with a scream of power the engines overreved. The moment they did, she spun back harder to port. 

On the bow of the enemy trawler, a fresh group of men were making an effort to rig the heavy pulse cannon again. As they did, Kel’dar rose and, where the vibrations and rolling in the waves made accurate shooting almost impossible, one of the Bulgarians froze and toppled from an abrupt telepathic interruption of his conscious bodily control courtesy of the Mha’dorn officer. It was enough to collapse the second effort to bring into action a weapon that might have been decisive. 

“Team, shift to starboard and  _ brace yourselves _ !” Stasia weared the trawler on the port quarter of the Bulgarian. As she swung up alongside with her engines surging, the helm was spun back sharply, the rudder bucked in the propwash, and the trawler lurched back to starboard. Slamming her old-tyre rub-guards into the matching equivalents on her rival, the two vessels made contact in a surge of sea and spray. 

“Fire until you see the glow!” Stasia shouted, and then: “Beam ‘em down!” The impact had strewn people down onto the deck of the pirate broadcaster. A moment later Daria flashed into view with a reinforced squad of twelve  _ Huáscarenos.  _ Swinging her rifle up she dropped one, two, three of the IARO paramilitaries on the deck with a preternaturally accurate aim. The squad charged forward and fanned out in elements into the deckhouse. 

Stasia throttled back down hard, seeing smoke rolling off the decks aft. She grabbed the bullhorn still tucked in place on the bridge. “All hands, man your fire extinguishers and axes! Damage control on the double!” 

  
  
  
  
  


The news that they had successfully secured the pirate broadcast trawler and didn’t have any serious casualties brought a palpable relief of tension to the bridge of the  _ Huáscar.  _ Elia, who had decided on the course of the battle, looked particularly relieved. 

“Well done, Commander. I will take the deck.” Zhen’var spoke from where she’d burst onto the bridge about thirty seconds into the action. “ _ Very _ quick thinking. That was most of the QRF we had left, was it not?”

“It wasn’t even one,” Elia replied. “I just had a list of people who had been in past QRFs but were not currently assigned. Captain.” 

“You exceed my already-high expectations, Commander Saumarez. I expect, and worry, we will have more need of such. If you think it possible, anything we can spare, kept ready for the call, may be wise.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Elia replied. “I greatly appreciate the confidence you show in me.” 

“It is deserved. I believe the situation is delicate enough to start to hold some fighters on Quick Reaction Alert, or even a CAP, as part of the QRF.”

“Understood. Bringing the ship to Condition Yellow, MC YOKE.” Not modified ZEBRA, it would still allow passage through the ship, so a more relaxed posture than their typical Code Yellow, but they were unquestionably alerting everyone that combat could be considered imminent, and as part of it, an eight-fighter, two-runabout CAP would be authorised, with four more fighters on QRA. 

“Oh, and Commander? Though it needs not be explicitly said, I expect a  _ planetary _ threat, possibly using hugging tactics with friendly units.” Zhen’var already was feeling the stress of this assignment, and she’d not yet been on station very long  _ either _ .

“Understood, Captain. However, we have another issue. It’s quite likely that IARO paramilitaries will threaten the owners and crew of the trawler that assisted us. Chief Héen is requesting a garrison for St. Mark of Apraxin to protect them.” 

Zhen’var, for a moment, looked like she wanted to plant her face into her hands, before rallying and offering; “Of course. That is perfectly logical. You can liaise with Colonel Fei’nur to find one between whom-ever we have left with  _ any _ training.”

“We’ll need to pull a detachment off of her force to have anyone capable of securing St. Mark, Captain,” Elia replied bluntly. “But we don’t have any choice or our credibility is gone.”

“Do it. If the locals cannot trust us, you are right, we will have nothing left in their eyes. We are being badly overstretched, and our status reports to higher command have garnered no response. We will make do, somehow.”

  
  
  
  


The next day, the initial private response teams from the Humanitarians Without Borders umbrella group had set up and were already dispensing aid in villages near the frontier line between the Bulgarian and Japanese townships. Nah’dur was holding a surgery clinic in the town of Norovno, cheerfully doing bone marrow transplants on a couple of children with leukemia in a prefabricated surgical ward.

She’d already spoken with the leaders of the HWB group, and though they seemed a bit oblivious, were going to move into the Japanese territories soon. Her own plan had been to start mass replication of simple, nutritious rations on the  _ Huáscar  _ and just beam them down into the Japanese towns, but there were millions of Japanese on the planet and a huge backlog. 

Some members of the Rejuvenation Society had already tired of waiting, and had pulled out to make attacks on the food convoys now moving to the Bulgarian towns. They were too far out and with unreliable comms, and proceeded with their attacks. The first inkling Nah’dur had of it all was the sound of shots being fired and screams outside. The nurses and corpsmen around her visibly started, a couple of the junior ones looked for the exit to the tent. 

“Keep working,” Nah’dur said calmly. “We’ll be done in another five minutes.” She didn’t even look up from what she was doing. The shooting quickly died off anyway, replaced by the barking of orders in a tongue that Nah’dur was familiar with, for all the wrong reasons. 

“Aalmost…” She worked through her procedures methodically, still ignoring the sounds, right up until the moment that a Japanese in a hachimaki and overhauls burst into the operating theatre holding a Reich standard pulse rifle. 

“Out! Immediately! You are hostages!” 

“I’m busy,” Nah’dur replied in perfect Japanese, and went on to the next procedure. “Don’t listen to the honourable soldier,” she added, letting the universal translator handle that as she instructed her people. “Honourable soldier, it is necessary for me to finish this surgery, or else the patient shall die.”

“A Bulgaria…”

“A child,” Nah’dur cut him off, still not looking up. “And quite possibly Japanese,” she sniffed under her mask. “You can’t tell, not with all of these tubes and masks. Honourable soldier, leave, I must finish the surgery. Please. It would dishonour your service otherwise.”

The man had a silent, inscrutable expression for a moment, and then lowered the rifle and stepped out. Nah’dur calmly continued her surgery. As she had worked, she had quietly clicked on the broadcast feed on her omnitool. 

When she finished the procedure, she looked up from her patient to her staff. “Stay here and stabilise the patient.”

“Surgeon-Commander?” 

“I need to go somewhere,” she answered, and instead of going out through the entrance, took a scalpel and cut herself a new exit out of the back of the surgical tent. 


	3. Act 3

**Act 3**

  
  


Outside of the medical tents, the leaders of the Rejuvenation Society company had forced all the aid workers to kneel, keeping them well-covered with guns as they tied them up. It was being broadcast live by a simple hand-held recording camera and a primitive antenna rig. 

“Alliance, know that we are strong and the age in which the Bulgarians could oppressed us with the encouragement of the Gestapo and complete impunity is long gone!”

“We will no longer tolerate being starved into submission. We will fight for our livelihoods, our towns and mines, the blood of our ancestors and their hallowed souls. The independence and sovereignty of all Japanese-occupied territory and sufficient German lands for food self-sufficiency on the surface of Drachenfeldt is an absolute requirement, or else we must take extreme measures to insure our independence!”

Behind the group, a single Dilgar in surgical scrubs very quietly circled through the town. Her omnitool was still broadcasting. The Rejuvenation Society paramilitaries were no professional troops, by any measure. 

There was only one guard on the rear of the motor pool of Technicals that the Rejuvenation Society paramilitaries had arrived in, and he was more interested in listening to his commander’s speech than doing his duty. Rather than risk alerting them, Nah’dur crept up with one of her scalpels.  _ That  _ was over a moment later, for though usually too delicate for such a use, it was perfect for severing everything important that was exposed in the human neck. Dilgar at least had a line of cartilage covering the really important parts…

Nah’dur looked down at the body and spreading blood with a perfect sense of clinical detachment. She hadn’t actually intentionally killed anyone before, it was a surprisingly unproblematic experience. Or perhaps not surprisingly at all. Ahead of her, there was one ore-hauling truck with the right orientation, broadside to the plaza of the town, which was a small ore-hauling truck--big by the standards of road trucks--and fitted with a massive twin anti-aircraft pulse cannon. 

_ That will do.  _ She clambered up the side and up-checked the gun with the practice of an automaton. Fei’nur had been utterly determined to make sure she and her sisters were never unready. It was only when she kicked the mount traverse and swung it around to bear on the main body of the Rejuvenation Society troops that they realised precisely what had happened. 

“Just for future reference, Dilgar Surgeon-Commanders don’t swear the Hippocratic Oath,” Nah’dur said with a tight grin, purely for her own benefit. The gun had opened up before she had finished the sentence. 

The shock and confusion of the Rejuvenation Society troops was completed when a volley of pulse rifle fire slammed into their flank, a scratch response team assembled from Fei’nur’s headquarters platoon and led by her personally in frantic response to Nah’dur’s open comms line. She had to rely on the universal translator, her voice cracking out over the speakers of her armour;  _ “Surrender or die!” _

Leaning into the harness of her gun, Nah’dur stitched her away across the Rejuvenation Society positions, driving them back whenever they threatened an attack which might imperil the hostages, hugging the ground over which her pulse bolts flew. The gun was powerful enough to simply blow straight through a lot of cover, and they’d already decimated the main body. 

Sweeping forward, Marines took up positions, leapfrogging forward through the town, clearing pockets of resistance and taking up positions around the central common. Paramilitaries toppled like tenpins in the heavy fire, not well trained enough to take effective cover. 

It was over--operationally, if not in fact. Some of the Japanese proved quite unwilling to surrender, but for the most part they did. Their discipline and organisation had collapsed quickly under the shock of the abrupt attack and the surprise of the quick reinforcements. They were armed miners, not professional soldiers. Fei’nur’s Marines had quickly earned their salt in the attack.

Nah’dur checked her fire to avoid hitting any of them. She looked around, blinking widely, like it was only now dawning on her what she’d just done. 

“Secure the area!” The Colonel waited long enough to ensure her people had the situation under control, before she’d step closer to the technical Nah’dur had captured, her expression softening. “Come down from there, Nah.” She murmured, once close enough to let her speak directly without anyone else hearing.

Nah’dur jerked at hearing only her personal name, with her eyes widening, clambered down from the side of the truck to face Fei’nur. “Colo… Fei?” She asked, softly. 

Fishing into her combat rig, Fei’nur brought up a small flask. “Drink, one swig, no more.” Her voice was still quietly kind, as she stepped closer, and clapped a hand on Nah’dur’s shoulder. “The first time’s always the hardest. You did  _ wonderfully _ , Nah. First combat badge  _ and  _ with a pin for you, I’d say.”

The moment she drank, Nah’dur knew it was Ish’la’fran. Her eyes and mouth shook from the hearty swig. Holding the flask until her hands steadied, she handed it back to Fei’nur. 

“Thank you, Fei,” she answered now, looking up with wide eyes. “I crept up close to the vehicle guard and took him with a scalpel. That was the hard part.”

“Your mother always had some in her desk, just in case. She’d be proud of you. You cannot ask others to take life if you aren’t willing to do it yourself. Spilling blood is our calling as soldiers, and you did what you had to, to save the lives of those hostages.” The arm around her pulled the young doctor into a quick hug. “Try and stay close tonight, like when you were younger. It should help you sleep, Nah.”

“I will, Fei. Thank you.” She squeezed back in the hug, and then drew back. “I should check up on my patient. She was in surgery when they burst in, I told them to leave -- they did, but it was still very crude.”

“Of course, Surgeon-Commander.” Fei’nur gave her a last smile as her mask of command slipped back onto her face, muttering as she turned away, “I think I am starting to  _ hate  _ this planet...” 

  
  
  


Perhaps the only positive thing about the aftermath of the fight at Norovno was that when Zhen’var tried communicating with the Rejuvenation Society, they answered over the comm channels with  _ alacrity.  _ The Japanese man who appeared on the screen even bowed deeply. “Captain Zhen’var, I am Takahashi Akinari, of the coordinating committee of the Rejuvenation Society, and I wish to extend my personal apology for the incident at Norovno. Our leadership did not sanction Shigeru’s actions, his heart was wild and could not be controlled.”

“It was  _ gekokujō _ , then?” Zhen’var was  _ not _ well pleased after the report, but she would drill down to deatils, and accept the apology, if she was satisfied.

Mr. Takahashi inclined his head. “You understand our people. Yes, it was so. Again, I am very sorry.” He once more bowed. “We will talk with the Bulgarians, aboard the  _ Huáscar _ . We will not make terms first. But we must have food.” 

“Your apology is accepted, sir. I have provided food to Yatsukawa, Kenyako, Renbatsu, Narakonai, Shiragawa and Kenkanai. We are working as quickly as we can to clear the backlog of starvation, Mister Takahashi. We are beaming down rations as quickly as we can, and if we have your  _ word _ the aid workers will be safe, they will proceed under escort into your claimed territories. I know it is slower than we both wish, but we are making our best possible effort to provide food.”

He nodded stiffly. “You have my word. We will protect any who come to distribute food, or medicines.” 

“Then you have mine that I shall consider myself bound by obligation to keep the peace, and protect and succour non-combatants and those who do not actively use their arms.” She was somewhat stepping into dangerous ground,  _ but _ her habit of going far beyond her orders had not changed.

“You honour us, Captain. We will await further communication” The transmission blinked off. 

  
  
  
  
  


Having used the computer to locate her operations officer, Captain Zhen’var paused at the door to the wardroom, knocking gently on the frame. “Permission for the Captain to enter?” It was, after all, the wardroom of the  _ officers  _ \- and in the old navy traditions, Zhen’var considered it a privilege, not a right, to enter.

“Come in, Captain! Permission granted!” A youthful Dilgar Ensign with the incredible colouration of the Valongar had the honours of greeting her, after Elia had given her permission herself as the ranking officer in the wardroom. Ensign Aur’ma, the islander woman from the Earth Dilgar colony--whose adoptive mother had something of a history with the Varmas. 

“Good afternoon, Ensign. Settling in well? Your first cruise after the academy back on Tira, is it not?” Zhen’var smiled as she went to fill a mug with tea from the replicator, along with a small plate of snacks.

“Oh, I’m very well settled, Captain. Yes, it is.” She surged with pride. “I’m very thankful to be able to follow my elder sister to the same ship. Is Ka’var well?”

“She is, though too long in zero-gee has taken a toll, I fear. Her days charging into in harms way are done, hopefully; when the  _ Wrath  _ returns from this galaxy to Rohric, I do not believe mother will serve again. That will help. At any rate, Lieutenant Seldayiv rates your skill highly for one so fresh to the service. Keep up the good work, Ensign. I fear I must speak to Commander Saumarez.”

“Of course, Captain,” she turned back to her snack of satay. 

Elia was smiling, nursing a cup  of rooibos tisane. “So, what do we need to talk about, Captain?”

“Mha’dorn business, I  _ think _ . The Bulgarians we took. I do not think they were just planning to broadcast incitement, do you?” She sipped at her always-present tea, lips pursed as she popped a morsel of Chicken 65 into her mouth.

“Hmm… Terrorism, genocide, probably a few other things, yes,” Elia said blackly. “You want me to interrogate them, don’t you?” 

“No. I want to interrogate them. I just want you to stand by for it. I shall not turn you into an intelligence woman, unless you ever want to be. I  _ think _ there is an exception for imminent terrorist attacks, the ‘ticking bomb’ clause, is that correct?”

“Correct. Earth Alliance law had something else, though of course Marsies would do things like fantasize about the suicide bombing they were about to commit to make Earth-born telepaths report it and then get in trouble when it wasn’t real.” She looked down into her cup, not wanting to dwell on the situation back home, but unable to ignore it, either. That she was performing her duties in such an exemplary fashion anyway was a testament to her discipline. 

“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know? You are holding up better than I would, Commander.”  _ Look at me! After all, I turned myself into a Dilgar, pretty sure most people say that is the opposite of ‘holding up’ _ .

Elia cracked a massive grin.  _ In this freaking multiverse, Zhen, you’re one of the sanest people around.  _ The willingness to  _ speak  _ to a mundane like that was unfathomable back home. But here with her Captain and friend she’d gotten comfortable enough for it. “I’ll work with Daria. Her powers give an extra insight that would make us a good team for this.”

_ Have I told you recently how cool it is you can do that, Elia? _ Zhen’var’s face broke into a small grin. Ever since the first time her friend had  _ done _ that projecting into her head, she’d found it fascinatingly  _ awesome _ .

_ Oh, just a few times, _ Elia winked and laughed. “Thank you for taking my mind off everything,” she added verbally, and leaned back. The impulse to communicate with a mundane through vocal chords was still strong after years of socialization under the law.

“What are friends for, Commander? Whenever is convenient for the two of you, then. You both will be under more strain than I.”

“Understood. We’ll make the call together. Now, before you eat all of it… What are you eating, and can I try some?”

“Snack food. Chicken 65. And no, I do not know where the name came from. As spicy as anything else from where I grew up, so be careful!” She offered her plate, comfortable and smiling amongst her officers.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Having finished that, she was heading towards the Laboratory section aboard - she had a meeting with her science officer, and a knotty problem she thought he could rather solve, as she pressed the annunciator button near the door - not wishing to interrupt anything extremely delicate by using the override.

A minute later the door opened, revealing the Quarian, who came to attention. “Captain. How may I be of assistance?” Fera’xero showed the customary Quarian deference to the concept of a  _ Captain,  _ distinct from the rank, but was clearly immensely proud of the  _ Huáscar _ ’s labs from the few tours she had been given by him so far. 

“I was wishing to speak with you, Commander, about whether you had any ideas about locating some of the masses of heavy weapons looted by the two groups on the surface that seem bound and determined to start a war with each other?” She glanced about with a look of approval - he  _ did _ manage the labs well, and with how she’d unleashed her crews’ initiative, she was expecting much from everyone… especially how Quarian and Dilgar views on engineering seemed to build off each other in an almost exponential way.

“Weapons storage is an interesting dispersion problem. Certain areas will not be used for it, because it would be detectable in different ways. It is possible to radically limit the surface area of the planet which is being employed -- but five percent of the surface is still impossible to search, say, from orbit.” he stepped over to a holotank and activated it, making the surface swell. “Let’s look at the mines first, there’s anecdotal evidence there’s major stockpiles there from the intelligence reports.”

He zoomed in further, until he resolved the architecture around a heading shaft. “Observe the size of the tailings, the inclination of the shaft, and the mine equipment around it. That’s what I have to work with, as well as the location of say, Grunwald 9. I could develop a genetic algorithm which would reduce through the variables to select for mine-shafts with satellite images which indicate horizontal head approaches and with tailings and equipment large enough to indicate both linear length and physical diameter sufficient for the military heavy arms we are searching for. Then probe-drones could be sent to orbit the sites at night to look for gravitic anomalies in the tunnels.”

“I will admit only  _ mostly _ understanding that, Commander, but I trust your abilities. Coordinate with Operations to get the drones and your needed sensor time. Is there anything else you will need?”

“Reserved mainframe time, twice the usual allotment for Science. This algorithm is very intensive with the number of variables we are working, Captain.”

“I will approve the request, the Chiefs should have some idea what runtime we can delay to give you the resources, Commander.” Zhen’var was already thinking about ways  _ she _ could have arranged it, before she forced herself to stop. “Let the watch-standers know what you need, you should have it.”

  
  
  
  
  


Elia had gotten used to the idea that telepathy for military purposes was a side gig she would never quite escape. She was less sure about Lieutenant Seldayiv and the powers she had; they were something that Elia still grappled to put into her own frame of reference as much as she could. 

The two women met in the little security office in front of the brig. Crewers were already joking after the steady succession of events lately that it was the more utilized part of the ship. Elia thought that if they managed to maintain such an enviable record it would be well worthwhile. “I know this is something of a ‘bum job’,” Elia offered to the Dorei woman. 

“No problem. I’m happy to help, and it is important before my Goddess, you know,” she explained. “Staying in tactical required considerable prayer for me, actually.”

“I can imagine. It isn’t a usual profession, direct weapons fire, for your practice, is it?” 

“Certainly, but that makes it all the more important to have someone who is morally grounded in the role,” Daria replied. “That, in the end, is why I stayed with my career. As long as the Arms of the Alliance work toward morality, toward the liberation and salvation of peoples, there is nothing wrong with our stand.” 

“I wish I had such certainty about anything except for my family and my friendship with Zhen’var,” Elia replied. 

“By family you mean Psi Corps, don’t you?” 

“Mother and Father and all that implies,” Elia agreed readily. “And of course the Mha’dorn, the cousins I’m staying with,” she added with, a smile on her lips. 

Daria got herself some seemai strips from the replicator, thinking about that. “You know, there’s a lot of propaganda in the Alliance these days about the Corps, but they all seemed reasonable when they were here, so I’m not sure of what to think about it.” 

Elia sighed. “It’s all lies, and I feel like I’m constantly having to address it. The laws were passed by the mundanes, they ordered us to enforce them, they are the ones who produce the propaganda which demonizes us even at the same time we are required to send our best to enforce  _ their  _ laws, which burns them out and leads them to die by forty. They’re turning against us. Straight up the genocide ladder.” 

“I’m sorry, Elia.”

“I accept the apology in a way I wouldn’t from a mundane,” Elia replied. “The apology for even bringing up that slander. We are a nation, and the Earth Alliance can annihilate us at will.” She rubbed her forehead and grimaced. “Speaking of dead at forty, I need to replicate Nah’dur’s brain protectant.”

“Understood. Another minute?” 

“Yeah,” Elia agreed, as she punched in her prescription code. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I will take the lead in talking with them. They may just not respond to an alien. To be blunt.”

“You’re probably right. I’ll listen for trouble, then?”

“That would be the idea, yes.” As Elia replied, the drug she had the prescription for was replicated in front of her and she used the single-shot applicator. Strangely enough, she’d barely ever felt safer than she did being Nah’dur’s guinea pig for drugs to help telepaths. She just had the intense conviction that anything the woman made would be beneficial, or at least not hurt her. 

“Nah’dur’s something else for a Doctor, isn’t she?” 

“We telepaths believe pretty strongly that blood runs in families, I don’t think it’s a coincidence at all,” Elia replied. 

“ _ Dur, _ you mean?” Daria looked sharp. 

“Yes. She’s a genius.”

“Most people wouldn’t want a relative of Jha’dur to operate on them, genius or not.”

“Oh come on, Daria,” Elia smiled wryly. “The kid’s just a big ball of cheerfulness. Whatever relation to Jha’dur she has is hardly important. We both know that.”

“You are right. The Goddess would never have it any other way. Let’s do this, Commander.”

Elia nodded tightly. “Yeah, let’s.” She keyed open the hatch and stepped forward, the Dorei woman following close behind. Inside was the group of Bulgarian nationalists they had seized from the trawler. 

One of them glared up sharply at them as they entered. Elia had always fancied herself rather clearly Caucasian, from an old Norman French noble family, but her blood had tended toward some of southern Europe thanks to the marriages over the centuries, and she did have curly hair. 

The man before her, dressed in tattered camo and with five days growth of a beard around his mustache, looking about third and wiry muscled, assumed something else. “ _ Zhid _ ?” He spat. “Wiping out your kind was the only good thing the Nazis ever did.” 

For a moment Elia considered letting the man continue his assumption, but she realised from the sense of him that he was already negatively inclined toward Daria and she didn’t want him to clam up. “ _ Unfortunately,  _ no, I’m not Jewish. They have some of the tightest community in the Corps, so I’m rather envious. In fact, I think I’m one of about five Channel Islanders in the entire Corps. My name is Elia de Saumarez and the last time I recall, I am considered an Aryan under the Reich Blood Purity Laws.” 

“Your family might have the heritage, but a Gauleiter would never let his son marry you, anymore than a Bulgar!” he laughed bitterly. “What else was I supposed to assume, when they make you wear those black gloves like your own Alliance’s version of the mark of the Jew?” 

Daria shivered from the sheer intensity of the virulent hatred. She had been prepared for it, though. The Nazis milked the spectre of “the Jew” to keep all the surviving subject races of Earth united in fear and hate of the ultimate boogeyman, the mysterious, cunning, supernatural and demonic “Jew” that had been the subject of hundreds of years of sophisticated propaganda. 

“Boyan, you moron, why would you think the gloves mean she’s a Jew? Everyone knows Jews have big hook noses!” A bearded man in the back laughed at the first, and they all roared at their compatriot, who turned red as he glared at Elia. “Hey pretty lady,” he added, “talk to me, Mladen, I’m not afraid of an Englishwoman.”

“Norman French, more like,” Elia answered, her face pale and her body stiff. It was the only way to get by the undressing she was receiving in Mladen’s mind. “You gentlemen are in a lot of trouble. You were inciting massacre and violating the orders of the military governor by broadcasting propaganda illegally.” 

“I’m not worried,” he laughed. “We’ll drive you from the planet and have plenty of hostages to get us back with. The Bulgarian people will never stand to be slaves of a foreign power again. You don’t have the strength to hold every world of the Reich, the Nemski will fight to the death before they let you marry their daughters to aliens and Jews. You don’t have enough troops to hold them all. And if you give us our freedom, we’ll send tough guys, Bulgarian freedom fighters, to help you crush the Nemski, take their god-cursed scalps! I’d say this is your last chance to negotiate, Alliancer. We’re not afraid of your prisons, you  _ need  _ us.” 

As he had spoken, Daria focused on their minds, taking advantage of their passion to look through the weakened barriers, toward the information they sought to hide. She was overcome with visions of violence. A shaven-headed man in a beret, leading troops. Captured Nazi tanks firing into buildings. Particle cannon were whining, plasma mortars exploding in great flashes, and men in camo walking into battle as they crossed themselves and exchanged kisses on the cheeks. The green Lion flag was flying… Over the old Gauleiter’s palace, and the city was burning. Church bells were ringing, and she can hear prayers on lips.  _ Our Time is Come _ ! It came from a million thoughts, a million minds.

She did not nod, she simply glyphed it with her own powers to Elia:  _ A rising is coming on.  _

_ Understood. _ Elia smiled ever-so-politely to the men in front of her. “I will relay your words to the Captain, thank you.”

They both beat their retreat from the intense mental confines of the close presence of this rough-hewn, racist men. “Goddess,” Daria murmured. “It is coming, very soon, they expect it very soon, Elia.”

“The 22nd of September in the local calendar would be the anniversary of the declaration of Bulgarian independence,” Elia replied, referencing her omnitool. 

“Sooner. It doesn’t seem nationalist. There was praying,” Daria answered insistently. 

“Uhh… Well, it is an urgent solution.” She steeled herself. “PO Jameison, please bring the man named Mladen to a separate room.”

“Aye-aye Sir,” the security lead answered, and took two of his sailors under her arms to do the move inside the brig. He returned a moment later, indicating he was finished.

Tensing herself, Elia went back to the room. When she returned a few minutes later, she was sweaty and pale. “Captain, this is Commander Saumarez,” she barked into her omnitool immediately. “It’s happening, God, it’s happening. Not Bulgarian National Independence Day. It’s set for the  _ Elevation of the Holy Cross  _ \-- September 14th.  _ Tomorrow,  _ Captain, we’ve got to warn the garrison!”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Peacham answered the emergency call with a faintly tired voice, though there was no indication of irritation in it. “Captain Zhen’var, we appear to have an emergency. What is it?” 

Zhen’var’s voice was urgent, far flatter than normal. “Engage your Plan White  _ immediately _ , brigadier. A wide-scale rising by the Bulgarian radicals is  _ imminent - _ for the Elevation of the Holy Cross,  _ tomorrow!” _ There was the background sounds of the Condition Yellow klaxons sounding as the ship shifted to a higher alert state.

“A rising by the IARO?” Peacham’s bleary voice snapped into alertness. “The Elevation of the Holy Cross starts in just a few hours, technically. We have very little time. God… We’ll have to call the outlying units of the brigade in as fast as we can to avoid having them cut off and give us enough strength to hold the capitol.”

“It may trigger the attack once you do, Brigadier. Colonel Fei’nur has been alerted, but I have no further ground units available to assist yourself. I am preparing my wing for close-air-support duties, and my batteries for bombardment. The Navy is at your disposal in resisting this assault, but what little I have gleaned indicates the IARO is both well armed and confident.”  _ If the divine is kind, it will be enough. _

“We will make all possible preparations, Captain. Thank you. The British Army will, as usual, hold.”

To Zhen’var, and where she had grown up, it was a matter of poor taste to talk about the British Army and holding against risings, though she held her tongue, and gave a single sharp nod. “We stand ready to assist, Brigadier.”  _ Now we need to avoid a second rising at the same time. _

  
  
  
  
  


What followed was the utmost testament to the cunning and brilliance of the rebel and the insurgent when staging a rising against an occupying power. Meticulous subterfuge was pitted against all the technology of the Alliance and its friends. Buses had their windows painted over with scenes of people inside and translucent paint for driving at night. Railway cars on the ore railway had been brought to the spaceport with tanks hidden under cardboard gondolas. Bombs were placed in the sewers. 

When the hour came, cars piled full of armed fighters drove through the streets flying green Lion flags. Tanks began to form up and roll from the railway depots by the spaceport and industrial sektors. And power armour directly attacked the barracks of the brigade in the city. 

The last one was what caused the dying. The IARO was a disciplined terrorist organisation which had invested real effort into training over the past weeks with the equipment, and knew some of it from past experience with looted examples. They were attacking an enemy unprepared for their assault, which had settled into the regular routine of a peaceful occupation. 

The British troops had sensors and autonomous vehicles patrolling around their barracks’, but the level of warning they provided in an urban area was insufficient against an abrupt, all-out storm assault by power armour. Rockets and close-range plasma cannon blew through local shields and collapsed walls, while homing missiles destroyed vehicles while they were still warming up. The night was filled with flashes of plasma, particle and disruptor fire and short bursts of explosions. 

As the attacks by the power armour developed, men rushed forward with dump trucks to critical positions in the city, dumping their loads across the thoroughfares. Box trucks for delivering to businesses followed, swinging around behind them. Their boxes had been cut by welding torches and then repainted, so that when the hour came, a couple of one-minute cuts allowed the fighters showing up to man the positions to throw the entire structure off, revealing a heavy support particle repeater mounted to the bed and facing along the gravel piles, to which shovels quickly integrated the truck boxes for further protection. The batteries of fuel cell-electric vehicles were tapped and rigged to spools of razor wire used for sheep ranch fencing to produce electrified stop barriers. 

The sound of honking horns and ringing church bells filled the city as IARO men used the ‘net to coordinate crowds of supporters who were unwilling to mobilise as paramilitaries to get in their cars and drive into the streets of the city, honking their horns in unison to the sound of the national anthem. 

All of this in fact hardly hurt the British. The Army of the Stellar Union was superb and even when poorly led, the men from Captain rank down to the sergeants and the privates themselves could quickly organise. They piled from their barracks back into defensive positions around their motor pools and began to bring them up, dragging the wounded back and establishing field stations if the main clinic or hospital on post was burning. Heavy energy fire smashed into groups of Bulgarian power armour: The men inside those suits were  _ not  _ SS, by any measure, they were coming on like they were invincible in the suits, and their initial wild rush had been successful, but their tactics consisted of just that, a wild rush to charge the enemy and overwhelm them, and their small unit tactics were essentially primitive.

From the moment the British troops had some kind of semblance of order, they opened up on the power armour formations, improvised sotnias led by officers whose experience was usually a college degree and an ability to read German and thus Wehrmacht field manuals. They flanked the sotnias and delivered precision fires, calling in drones from launch points that were not under direct fire. Leaders were identified and terminated with homing missiles as most of the Bulgarians misused their defensive masking systems from inexperience. 

The attacks were failing, rapidly and decisively. The British Army, its usual self, was consolidating, methodically pushing back, and destroying its attackers. However, the IARO leadership had expected as much. The Power Armour attacks, while flashy and impressive, were just there to keep the British disorganised while they brought the Panzers up, driving in columns for the Gauleiter’s palace. This was a coup d’etat, and their target was the Brigadier and the Bulgarian National Council. The abrupt shock of heavy armour charging down the streets followed by trucks loaded with fighters to reinforce the attacks quickly brought the situation to a crisis. 

  
  
  
  
  


By that time, the  _ Huáscar  _ was at relaxed general quarters, just like they had discussed before the mission had begun. Zhen’var and her department heads were on the bridge, monitoring the fighting on the surface, when the request came in. 

“Major Harraway on the emergency comms line, Captain,” Lieutenant Tor'jar reported. 

“Major Harroway, this is  _ Huáscar  _ Actual. Go ahead.” Her voice was clipped as she could hear her comms section monitoring the situation on the ground - a worsening situation, by the shift in tone she could hear in the background.

“Captain, the Brigadier assesses that we need immediate reinforcements. Battalions of panzers are moving into the city centre and our outer patrols are being hard pressed by them. Considerable numbers of infantry fighters are with them. We need the full strength of your battalion, if possible.”

“Stand by, Major. The Colonel will deploy what she is able.” Zhen’var resisted the urge to growl - while she had  _ expected _ this to happen, she had hoped it would not. “Get me Colonel Fei’nur. Her usual pessimism will have led her to plan for this, at least…” 

“Colonel Fei’nur, on your channel, Captain.”

“Colonel, this is the Captain. The British urgently need everything you can spare in the capital, the enemy is making a push with heavy armour for the centre of government and there are doubts our forces can hold.”

There was a moment of dead air, before the older Dilgar woman’s voice came back. “Understood. I will have the bulk of my forces moving shortly. I intend to liaise with Operations to provide me reconnaissance and keep up speed. If you have no objections, I should be about it, Captain.”

“I do not, Colonel. Let your strike find the mark.  _ Huáscar _ Actual, out.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


There was a disciplined process to shift troops halfway around the planet. The personnel transporters would shift the troops with their light arms, and the cargo transporters would handle the heavy equipment inside of the prepared defensive positions, from whence it could be quickly re-crewed. 

The troops were moved  _ en masse,  _ for they needed coordination and coherency to their formations to survive in the midst of heavy urban combat. Positions near combat, but outside of it, were chosen, where Fei’nur’s battalion could pinch one of the flanks of the IARO armoured advance. And then, ready, with their guns pointed out, they flashed from the mining ranges into the midst of the capitol, the transporters cycling four platoons a minute. 

It was a new evolution for Fei’nur, but one that she had forced herself through, again and again on the holodeck, until she felt she had a firm grasp upon it - though she had not been expecting to use it again so  _ soon _ .

There was a burst of light, and there they were again, facing their enemies. Fortunately that was only metaphorical, though the transport did entail for providing covering fire the moment they arrived with all of their small arms, while the mortars and support weapons were set up and missile teams deployed, and this was done despite the lack of an obvious threat. It was part of doctrine, and no chances were being taken as the rest of the troops beamed in and they nervously awaited the impending arrival of their heavy equipment, the sixteen light tanks and ten artillery pieces which would make this affair somewhat more fair… For them. 

Fei’nur watched through her HUD the icons that were her command as they spread out to take their positions, securing the transport zone for the heavy equipment to follow. She didn’t give orders, not yet. The situation was, for now, still firmly in the book she’d tried to drill into her lieutenants.

They rushed forward and took up positions to cover the arrival of the vehicles as the rest of the troops continued to beam-in… Ten minutes to complete the entirety of the battalion re-position, after the first seven, the tanks began to arrive, and the artillery pieces as well. That was the same time when the warning went out.

“Panzers, coming in!”

One of her Captains was already on that heading, the Linzstrasse: “Hunter-Killer teams, take cover in defilade!”

Fei’nur gave soft orders - her subordinates, she allowed initiative, but she herself kept control of coordinating the different wings. “Welcome to the fray, everyone. Artillery, position yourself to recieve fire requests - we have our objective, Combat Command B, start moving forwards to support Second Company.”

“Aye, Ma’am!” Security troopers in their field BDUs and heavy weapons dashed off to reinforce the Marines, and finally behind her, the artillery and tanks started to be crewed. Barely the moment that they were, though, explosions from mortar fire started to fall around them, and the chatter of heavy weapons cut across the front ahead. 

“Armour to the flanks, A and C! Objective is the British brigade headquarters! Get our overhead defenses up, and observers, start calling fire!”

Their guns loaded anti-tank submunitions and waited for the order. The observers followed her directives, and started calling fire. The guns started firing twenty rounds a minute. Guided anti-tank submunitions were minimally impactful on a built-up urban area, but there would be collateral damage. It couldn’t matter right now. The tanks revved their whining turbines and roared into action, while the sound of missiles from the forward teams indicated that they were already at close quarters. 

The Bulgarian IARO had already committed its reserves in responding to the sudden appearance of a reinforced battalion on one flank. Within moments, Fei’nur’s unit was in close quarters battle with the better part of two Panzer battalions, but in doing so they had already in a sense won. Their drones with anti-tank missiles were going up to reinforce them, and now they had to  _ hang on.  _ If they could break through to the brigade headquarters, they’d have done their job. If they merely held, they would still like as not do it by diverting powerful enemy forces from their primary objective.

Fei’nur was a Dilgar of the old school, if one that had learned many new tricks. She had an objective, and she was already shifting her companies about to take advantage of the terrain, moving up to nearly being under fire herself. At such range, even her light tanks could ambush the heavy Reich units with the quality of support they had, darting down narrow streets and wheeling sharply as the tactical net came alive. “Keep the chatter down, this is madness enough.” Her voice cracked out to keep the frequencies clear for the information that could keep her people alive - insight, rather than just dots on a holo-display.

The strategy of using the light tanks was capable enough. The IARO had no such experience, had no experience at all, in fact. It took only minutes for the convergence to occur, and as it did, the artillery knocked out the heads and rear of Panzer columns, and then the light tanks spun on one tread around side streets and opened fire into the flank of tanks trapped in the column, knocking them out before withdrawing. Within the first ten minutes, twenty of a hundred and twenty IARO heavy Panzers coming for had been knocked out and she hadn’t lost even one of her own tanks. The thunder of heavy and light weapons alike rolled through the canyon of the city streets in a continuous rumble, turrets whirring and sensors spotting fire accurately onto critical parts of their heavy enemies as the war-veteran Marine tankers used better handling and proper artillery support to the maximum advantage.

Bold hunter-killer teams charged into close range against tank columns trapped by burning Panzers. Bringing their anti-tank homing missiles to the ready, they targeted tracks and engine intakes. Now the Marines were taking losses, because the IARO was quite capable of swinging around crew-served support disruptors and particle cannon and letting loose with everything they had against infantry in close quarters, but they were overwhelmed by the tactical situation and lashing out at everything around them.

_ Just like the old days, except this time we can actually hurt them with our missiles. _ “The enemy is off balance. Third Company, you have a possible opening...  White, this is Shovel, request local jamming of enemy tactical net starting in three minutes.”

“Leather confirms, Shovel. White on point for ECM in three repeat three minutes.”

“Copy, thank you.” She switched channels. “Companies, snow starting in three, stand ready to pounce!” She knew the systems would  _ adapt _ , but with the IARO hard-pressed, she was betting the short collapse of their tactical net would let her get her breakthrough.

“Confirm, confirm…” Call-outs ran back to ‘Shovel’, and Fei’nur’s officers prepared themselves for an aggressive counterattack and lunge for the British Brigade headquarters. This was no small task as they brought up their scout vehicles and other light equipment and transports. Acting on the offensive against a much stronger foe, even a disorganised and inexperienced one, required the utmost in professionalism and ruthlessness.

She had confidence in her people as she watched the clock tick down in the corner of her HUD. “Stand by… three… two… one…  _ mark!” _

Her companies exploded into action, her tanks overtaking their positions and charging forward according to the assault plan they had worked up even as the transport was underway. Pushing forward, they manoeuvred around the burning ruins of the Panzers they had already knocked out and engaged others pinned in place in columns in the street. Reinforcement was nonexistent, and this time they kept going until they made a few tank aces knocking out the enemy in the dense urban quarters. 

Neither side had enough time to properly fortify buildings, outside of the main British positions, but the worst fire came as some of the IARO troops rushed into the buildings to take up positions and direct counter-fire down on them. This was purely on local initiative from IARO officers smart and capable enough to take it in response to the rapidly worsening situation. Already Fei’nur’s tanks broke through the initial forces they had engaged in two thrusts. Now they had to break through the main enemy barricades along the Sauckelstrasse. The tankers didn’t leave anything to chance. They revved their engines to full power and plunged through the city, letting nothing stop them as the city was lit with the flashes of energy weapons and explosions on the horizon, the power still on to shopfronts and billboards contrasting with the active combat in front of them. 

With her ad-hoc headquarters platoon, she was racing after her leading elements, trying to keep everything coordinated, and her infantry companies following after the tanks, trying to catch up to screen them from the same sort of assaults she had been directing against the insurgent’s tanks. It was the sort of madness which she had always risen to the top of, bracing herself as she shifted information between her spearheads and tried to keep some cohesion between her captains.

As she did, her tanks stormed the barricades while laying down shrapnel rounds, tearing through the unprotected gun positions. Dismount platoons followed into the chaos as mortars mounted on vehicles provided close support. They cleared the barricades in short, close-quarters work with rifles and grenades. Beyond them, the enemy adapting to the comms snow, their reserve battalion of Panzers was preparing to move out when it was blindsided by Fei’nur’s two converging columns. 

The result was a short massacre, not, perhaps, as one-sided as the groups of tanks taken apart so expertly at first. But the IARO fighters didn’t handle their vehicles well enough to use their advantages, and the better part of half the battalion fell back in the chaos -- now having local superiority, Fei’nur’s tankers turned on the other half and started to finish the job. The Union Jack was flying right ahead. They’d done it.

Around them, the city rustled, intact except for the spots of burning buildings, the positions where the IARO still held. It was a success but not a triumph. The cantonments of the Panteri, the troops of the BNC, were still filled with armaments, the clatter of guns still echoed behind them, and the better parts of a division were still swirling in fighting around them. If major IARO reinforcements arrived, they would still lose. Fei’nur figured she had an hour to get her troops into defensive positions around the government district; there were more Bulgarians coming and the night was far from over.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Sergeant Waters had been shifted with the group detailed to keep order in the city of St. Mark of Apraxin. A single company of regular marines with the support of four light tanks and two artillery pieces, they were certainly adequate for the original envisioned purpose. The eruption of fighting in the capitol had left everyone aware of what might be coming down the pike, though, and their position was  _ not  _ adequate for that. 

Rather than wait for the situation to develop, Captain Hur’tir had ordered his troops swung out into defensive lines outside of the city. He knew it would be better to fortify the city itself, but the Dilgar officer was acutely aware of the new ROEs compared to the Dilgar service which forbade such intentional impacts on civilians. Anyway, the village rising around them would make the situation worse, so it had some logic. They had already set up HESCO bastions around the main approaches to the town, Hur’tir was no idiot, and used a couple of wheel-loaders from the village to cut trenches and prepare rudimentary berms. Now they manned them, and got their recon drones up. 

Sergeant Waters’ platoon laid out their positions carefully with forward flanking positions for the anti-tank missile teams for firing from defilade as any attacker was driven into the barriers. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long until the trouble was detected, and unsurprisingly with the  _ Huáscar  _ overtasked it was the drones that found it. Sixty tanks, leading a brigade-strength formation, coming up the road and running fast.

A chill ran through every single one of them. That was far, far more firepower than they could directly face. “We’ve got support,” Jess flatly interjected onto the unit comms before any panicked chatter could show up. “Just hang tough and we’ll deal with it. They’re heading down this road to get to the capitol, that’s the only reason for such a force. And we’re not going to let them.”

Hur’tir blinked again at the sensor reports from his drones. His command post was close-in to the front and he could imagine the tanks, and see them clearly from the sensors, which even, in the midst of the night, revealed the flags gaudily waving from the sensor aerials of each ‘panzer’. They weren’t regulars, they weren’t veterans, his people were. He flashed a report to Battlemaster Fei’nur, Shovel, who shot back that simple, chilling order a minute later:  _ You are to hold until relieved. Lethal force is authorised.  _ The order had certainly come in from  _ Huáscar  _ Actual, but Fei’nur would never abrogate such responsibility for herself. The woman was a legend for good reason.

The young Tiran Dilgar saw the tanks light up a moment later as the autonomous anti-air turrets began to thunder at his drones. Someone had noticed the warnings the Nazi sensors had given them. He called the drones down to low altitude and pulled them back to continue getting some data and keyed up his artillery section. “Lieutenant Barrow?”

“Sir?” 

“You’re tracking your positional data on the incoming column?” 

“We are, Sir.”

Hur’tir tried to remember the Captain’s example on orders. “Lieutenant, I want you to buy me as much time as possible. You are fire free.” 

Barrow pretty much knew exactly what to do. He needed to get the enemy to deploy out of line as far from their position as possible. He ordered his guns to load guided AT cluster munitions and laid down fires on the lead of the column. The bomblets were designed to terminal home on the heat of the engine housings and penetrate them with jets of plasma. Most of them were shot down by the anti-air turrets on the tanks, but the spread of rapid-fire artillery shells was precisely staggered to overwhelm the lead, and the tanks were not in an artillery-defensive box but regular line of march, so the rear tanks in the formation couldn’t add their defensive firepower to those in the lead.

A wall of fire erupted from the leading tank element as two, then four tanks exploded, one flinging its turret into the air in massive pyrotechnics easily visible from Waters’ position. Still klicks away, the abrupt detonation of the lead of the column left the IARO force in confusion and disarray. Their natural impulse was to immediately shift into the attack and drive home the attack using the Panzers as aggressively as possible to overrun the enemy they now abruptly found themselves engaged with, their only warning the drones they had detected minutes before. 

Hur’tir brought up his comms. “ _ White _ , Hotshot. We are under heavy attack by a mechanised brigade. Air support urgently requested.” 

“Leather for Hotshot, White dispatching assistance. You have your instruction from Shovel,” Elia replied.

“We hold,” he answered. Ahead, the sharp artillery strike was having the desired effect because many of the vehicles transporting infantry were not fully off-road rated and were having difficulty bypassing the burning tanks and torn up ground. But now, the Panzers were bringing their guns into position and opening fire on the lines of bastions, an obvious target once they were in line of sight. They fired as they charged, and Hur’tir admired their élan, in part because it made his job easier: They were now opening the distance from their own infantry support. 

This still wasn’t going to be easy if the air support didn’t get to them quickly. “Anti-Panzer hunter-killer teams, prepare for engagement with unsupported panzers!” As he finished giving the instructions, Lieutenant Barrow’s guns spoke again.

  
  
  
  


Lar’shan surveyed the fighter hangar around him. To avoid problems with arming, he was prepping a half-deck strike. The final complement of the  _ Huáscar  _ had been 72 fighters and 40 bombers. They were arming half the force completely with small-diameter guided bombs, optimal for precise ground support. The other half, his half, sat armed and being spotted into the launching tubes, some of the fighters being shuttled up to the forward tubes by elevators where they were already being launched. The fighters could carry twelve each, the bombers forty-eight, including in the internal rotaries.

Around him, the pilots and crews completed boarding their craft. He keyed his line to Commander Imra as he pulled on his helmet and climbed into the cockpit of his own fighter. “Commander, we’re three minutes from beginning the main launch cycle. I’m doing final pre-flight now.”

“Confirmed, Major,” Imra’s calm tones answered. “PriFly has been directed to clear for the strike launch. Coordinate accordingly and launch when ready.”

“Understood.”

“Good luck, Major.”

With that, Lar’shan quickly began his final pre-flight, attaching his life support connections, sealing his helmet, checking the arm status on his ejection seat, and brought up PriFly. “PriFly Actual, this is WC-50 Actual. Request commence primary bay launch.”

“WC-50 Actual,” Stasia’s voice answered. “Is 50B1 up-checked?”

“Confirmed, PriFly Actual, 50B1 up-checked.”

“Commencing launch by squadron now, WC-50 Actual.”

The traditional salute from the catapult was snapped by a dozen hands as the lead wave of bombers roared down the tubes. Lar’shan completed his pre-flight and greenlighted the boards. A moment later, one of the handling trucks plucked his fighter out of its arming position and swung it toward a launching tube, locking it over the lead magnetic ring. Lar’shan saluted the handling crew, and with a rush of hard g’s, they were off. It was the first deck strike in earnest from the  _ Huáscar. _

  
  
  


The Marines had been busy in the meantime, doing their jobs. Even just two guns had left them in a position to fight back. The artillery had destroyed twelve tanks coming in. Then the hunter-killer teams had gone to work. Their own tanks had waited until the last moment and then delivered precise fires from behind cover. 

What had followed was a bloodbath. The IARO forces were completely unprepared in terms of training to face a real military. They had the finest Nazi equipment, but at the end of the day, their élan in pressing the attack was the only thing which made them dangerous. They fought their tanks like amateurs and their infantry tactics were simplistic. 

Of course, when you were a company fighting a brigade, that didn’t matter for nearly as much as it should have. Within ten minutes at close quarters, having pinned the IARO advance, the order to fall back rippled down the line. As professionals, they dealt with it calmly. It was part of the plan to make them hold as long as possible, there was no shame in it. The trick was to do it  _ cleanly.  _

A second line of bastions provided a last-ditch cover, and there were several advantages to giving ground against a force of this size as the infantry caught up with their panzers. Jess ran along her positions, urging her troops back. “Move move move! Second line of defence, fall back now! Get that out and rolling!” 

She piled into the last of the light scout vehicles as the fire from the panzers pounded into the barriers and knocked them around. Their artillery had fallen back first and laid down smoke for them, the tanks covering their retreat with their turrets facing aft. And then they were rolling, but they weren’t the only ones who were rolling. 

“ _ WC-50 Actual to ground forces, We are Rolling Hot. _ ”

When Jess heard that, she looked behind from the scout vehicle and grinned. “Oh you are so screwed now you bastards.”

  
  
  
  
  


Lar’shan brought his fighters and bombers in at high altitude. Speed and altitude were the best defence against a disorganised field force. Against a heavy, integrated defensive network, he would have led his fighters and bombers in right on the deck. Doing so against a mechanised field force would just unnecessarily expose himself to intense defensive fire. 

The Panzers were dangerous to his aircraft. They had main guns which could track and engage aircraft at altitude, even shoot at satellites in orbit. But lacking in trained, disciplined coordination, they were a random threat to shielded fighters. And as they approached their targets, the fighters began to fire drones and jammers from their torpedo tubes, which couldn’t take SDBs. The drones were probes with small pop-out winglets which began to orbit the battlefield, the jammers did the same with massive electromagnetic interference while the probes used lasers to range-find and deconflict the battlefield, tight-linking data back to Lar’shan’s group.

“Confirm DEX,” he snapped as the trackers on his laser targeting pod into active. 

“DEX confirmed… We are good on targeting..” each squadron leader reported in turn as computers were crosslinked to the telemetry. 

The next order was for the bombers only, as Lar’shan finalised his attack plan. “Bombers: Altitude hold at twenty thousand meters.”

“We know the drill, just sit on your ass, pickle and leave,” Vanessa Carter, 50B2 Lead, laughed over the comm. “Confirm altitude hold, twenty thousand meters.” 

Lar’shan watched the green-lights flash across his taclink. “ _ Huáscar  _ Actual, we have the enemy force targeted, IFF deconflict with Company A.”

“All fighters, attack!” He switched his bomb switch and pickled, before leading the lead flight into a smooth dive off to port. Each of the three squadrons followed suit.  As they dove out of cover he snapped the next order. “Full atmospheric thrust!” 

The fighters burned hard into powered dives, sonic booms slamming down toward the ground, klicks and minutes away. The IARO finally picked them up and tank turrets hastily spun skyward to try and engage, but the diving profile toward the deck meant that the shots went wild toward space, and with their shields up and conformal a few hits from tank guns mattered little. 

What did matter was that they had just painted their positions beautifully with thermal signature and fire tracking for the bombers, which now pickled and then turned back at altitude to escape the area at full power. 

The hundreds of small bombs converging on the formation took a solid minute to fall on their final courses. As they did, they swept the anticipated tracks of the vehicles they were engaging and the brigade comprehensively. The tanks brought their autonomous turrets up and engaged, and in fact something like 30% of the bombs were engaged and shot down, but the sheer quantity meant there was plenty of overkill to deal with attrition. 

The troops on the ground were treated to a lightshow like no other. The vast array of bombs detonated in salvoes and clusters from each aircraft and each squadron, coordinated to cover a particular grid and track a particular set of targets. The entirety of the attacking brigade and their former position disappeared into blossoming white flashes and intermingled columns of flame and smoke, flashed into existence in the dark and remaining visible through the light of the explosions to follow. 

Interlocking shockwaves thundered in the air around them, automatic hearing protection kicking in as sod and flame were shorn into the sky, the shockwaves outright visible through the smoke and flame of past explosions. As each tranche of explosions faded, another from the bombers slammed home as five flights delivered twice as many bombs as all of the fighters put together. 

“Mother of God,” someone muttered in her platoon. 

“That’s flyboys for you, private,” Jess snorted. “Sit around and jerk off all day until they get a clean target, then roll up and make it look easy and claim all the glory.” 

Just as she finished saying it, the tactical comm channel activated. “This is Bomber Two, making it look easy! Backetcha, Jarheads!” That it was a woman’s voice made it even better, followed shortly by a few chords from Steppenwolf’s  _ Magic Carpet Ride  _ before Lar’shan ordered his squadron commander to cut it out.

Jess rolled her eyes. 

In front of them there were twenty-five hundred dead men and four hundred burning vehicles as the light faded away into the flickers of heavy black electrical smoke. The town of St. Mark of Apraxin certainly didn’t sleep that night, but it  _ was  _ safe. They’d stared enough. She raised her voice and pitched it against the sound of the burning and occasional secondaries. “Platoon! Take -- Positions!” 

  
  
  
  


With the assault on the Gauleiter’s palace and the Panzer column at St. Mark of Apraxin both defeated, the risk of an IARO takeover of Drachenfeldt had effectively been eliminated, and the situation on the bridge of the  _ Huáscar  _ had calmed considerably. The second half of the wing had just been detailed to attack another column advancing on the capitol, but by itself it offered a substantially reduced threat. 

“Captain, we’re getting a transmission from the mining sectors,” Elia said, her voice cutting across the atmosphere of relief on the bridge, conveying subconscious tension. “It’s on the emergency channels.”

“What do I need to know?” 

“It’s from the Rejuvenation Society. They’re declaring the independence of the ‘State of the Mountains’, all the Japanese populations and mining towns and mines. It’s a call to arms and a declaration of independence, Captain.” 

Zhen’var sank a little deeper into her command chair. “Commander Fera’Xero, find me their arms caches. Now. We are out of time.”


	4. Act 4

**Act 4**

  
  


Immediately, Fera’Xero knew that the situation depended utterly on his own efforts. They had pulled back all of their troops acting as peacekeepers between the mining towns and the Bulgarian villages in the area. They might be winning against the IARO rising, but they had no reserves, and the planet would boil over if the BNC joined the IARO, which they probably would if the Rejuvenation Society rose unchecked. 

The satellites he had deployed into orbit had been mapping the planet with each track, across multiple spectra and bands of data. From those masses of data came the problem of pattern hunting. True AI could do this but true AI grew naturally more unstable the larger it got. partial-AI or VI to his home universe worked acceptably well, processing the data in a blink of an eye, the problem became when it was trying to find significance within the patterns.  _ What was significance?  _ What if you didn’t know in advance? 

If significance was not ‘well posed’, then the VI could simply miss it and continue to optimise.  The best way to avoid this was to integrate sapient observation, but since sapient observation was intensely  _ slow  _ compared to the computations, you needed good triggers for when it was called for. 

The step already fully complete had been simple cropping. This required no effort, once programmed the computers ran through it straightforwardly. It was clear the Rejuvenation Society would not hide its heavy weapons too far away from one of the towns it held, or it could not access them in a militarily useful period of time. When that work was done, the real work started. The computer filtered images down to signatures appropriate for tunnels, or recently turned Earth, and analyzed forest canopies for heat differences. 

When it pinged an anomaly, Fera’Xero brought it up and had a look. If the anomaly looked promising, then he could cue the sensors to sift through masses of multispectral data in the area to determine whether or not equipment was underground in bulk. At the same time, a second program was identifying all visible mining equipment. This combined third step was what he was still working on.

To accelerate it, knowing how dire the situation was, he now focused in on the mine entrances, having already having had several hits with equipment underground near the main towns. Track width in the visuals of tracks in the approach to the tunnels were compared with that on the equipment through a quick subroutine. Once it was clear there were three locations where they didn’t match, he ran the detailed detection routines through the tunnels. 

Zhen’var didn’t speak again. She didn’t press him, she didn’t ask about his progress. He was being  _ trusted  _ by his Captain, but with that trust, he could  _ feel  _ the expectation that he would generate results. That expectation, implicit in her command, made him want to prove himself, and it was with extreme relief that he generated the list of three sites and shot it to Zhen’var, Tactical, and Operations. The statistical postprocessing completed a moment later. “Captain, I have the caches with ninety-nine two probability. No significant probability elsewhere.”

“Thank you, Commander, good work. Commander Saumarez?”

“They’re too close to towns for us to avoid collateral damage unless we use the fighters.”

Zhen’var activated a line to Lar’shan. “Major, what is your status?”

“Returning to the  _ Huáscar  _ to rearm, it will take twenty minutes to get even a single flight off from that, Captain.”

“Too long, they will have moved the equipment by then,” Zhen’var looked down, then back up, and spoke in general to her bridge crew. “Suggestions?”

At Navigation, Arterus paused in his completely mundane task while maintaining orbit. The question was open-ended and clearly meant for more than just the usual suspects. Elia Saumarez knew altogether very little about weapons effects, in fact. 

He had felt embarrassed by his past answers to the Captain’s  _ intent,  _ but now, if he were to keep his honour, he’d make himself useful regardless. “Use the training settings, Captain, on the energy weapons. Long duration, tight beam, high-precision fires. Collapse the tunnels with minimum effect. Better yet, if we can deliver torpedoes accurately, fire the training torpedoes without warheads.”

Zhen’var didn’t need long. “Lieutenant Seldayiv, can we implement?”

And now it was the Dorei woman’s turn to feel on the spot. She knew that like Arterus her first weeks on the  _ Huáscar  _ had been rocky. But her Goddess’ attitude was clear, and the needs of the situation as well. Daria swallowed, considering the separation of only a few hundred meters between targets and towns. “Laying firing solutions in now, Captain.”

“Report when ready,” Zhen’var answered, and a dim feeling of pleasure seemed to reach Daria’s senses. It reassured her, and she completed the preparations in a bare minute of reprogramming, confirming lock-downs and repositioning torpedoes autonomously in the magazines. 

“Ready, Captain.”

“Very good. You are to engage targets as designated by Science Officer at your discretion,” Zhen’var ordered. That one she had kept for herself. 

Feeling like a natural extension of the team, Daria whispered a prayer for those on the ground, and started to fire. One after another, the tunnels collapsed. There would be no second rising today.

  
  
  
  
  
  


By the next day, the situation had fully calmed. There was no more organised fighting, though hit and run attacks by small groups were continuing here and there, predominantly the IARO. The Rejuvenation Society had accepted the order to stand-down with far more order. 

It was right around lunch when Zhen’var got the request from Commander Imra for a meeting. It was tagged both professional and relevant to recent events.

She tapped an acknowledgement, and suggestion to meet for a working lunch, it would get her in immediately, and stop the Captain’s schedule from starting the inexorable rightward slide that would inevitably result from trying to fit a  _ new _ event into it.

Commander Imra agreed, and arrived a few minutes later for the proffered lunch. The expected sartorial accoutrements of gloves and sunglasses were as present as ever, and she had her omnitool. “Captain, thank you for seeing me so quickly.” 

“Your insights are often quite valuable, Commander. Please, have a seat.” She had a simple curried meat dish before her, as her hand gestured towards a chair.

“Of course, Captain.” She sat, and then turned to the replicator to make her order. “ _ Kitfo, _ ” she pronounced precisely. What appeared was a dish of minced raw meat with chili powder. She grimaced politely. “Forgive me, but of course, replicated meat does not harm any of Mother Cow, so I did not mean it as an offence, but thought it acceptable. It is -- all artificial, in the end.”

“What I believe is not a matter to be forced on others. It is not as if most Dilgar would hesitate even a fraction if presented with such a dish.”  Her head shook slightly, as Zhen’var speared a bit of replicated lamb with her fork.

“Fair. The multiverse is very cruel, dharma probably the best hope of everyone, but I was raised Orthodox, and so here I am.” She ate slowly. “Captain, the Turians are coming to claim this world. For want of anything else, I was keeping up with the news reports from the treaty negotiations and allocations. We are partners in… I am oathsworn not to criticise my civilian leadership, however, we must be mindful that if this situation is not handled carefully the people of this planet will again be cruelly oppressed.”

“Agreed. We are limited in what we can do overtly, but… if word reached the two factions… they hate each other, but a  _ Turian _ invasion? I am unsure.”

“The Turians may be willing to negotiate. The norms of the Citadel Council are basically democratic, and the Turians, exceptionally law-abiding. They brook no dissent, but they are not Nazis, and by contrast may be favourable. I… It might help if we could clearly differentiate the Bulgarian and Japanese populations from the  _ enemy,  _ Captain. Enemy in the Turian eyes, I mean.”

“Unfortunately, there are no Nazis for them to demonstrate that particular virtue against. That would be easy enough, if there were still Reich forces holding out.” Zhen’var sighed, and leaned back in her chair, food half-forgotten.

Rare for Abebech, she didn’t neglect hers. “That’s not completely true. There’s certainly holdouts and stay-behinds on the planet. Should we act this way, Captain? Risk problems for the Turians in favour of finding peace here and now, but gamble that everyone will be better off as a consequence?”

“I think it a better thing for the planet than letting them continue the way they are, Commander Imra.” She looked so uneasy about coming out and  _ saying _ that risking this level of problem just  _ might _ pay off.

“I believe I understand, Captain,” she said, sharply and very calmly. “Well, the next few days will be interesting in the Chinese sense of the word, not like we haven’t already had that. Speaking of, is Commander Saumarez doing all right?”

“No, but she is holding herself together and doing her duty. I can barely hope to understand the smallest hints of what she is going through.” Zhen’var spoke more softly and conversationally.

“I had thought as much. I…” She paused, and pursed her lips. “I feel regretful, for I stay away from other telepaths, on account of my past. I should not say more, for, it is what it is. I hope she will be well. You are a fine friend to have, Captain.”

  
  
  
  


About an hour later, Zhen’var’s omnitool trilled with a message from Elia. “Captain, this is Commander Saumarez. I’ve got a leader of the Rejuvenation Society on channel. He wants to come to the  _ Huáscar  _ to negotiate directly with us and is prepared to meet without preconditions with the Bulgarian National Council. Captain, I recommend accepting the proposal. It is without preconditions, and Mr., ah, Takahashi Gendo.”

“I concur, Commander. Inform him we are accepting his proposal, and prepare to inform the National Council of it as well - once we have sounded out the Rejuvenation Society.” The feeling that, perhaps, they were turning the corner and making  _ progress _ made Zhen’var’s lips curl into a smile of their own accord.

“Understood, Captain. One moment.” There was a pause, and then: “We have beaming coordinates. Shall I bring him directly onboard and arrange for one of the conference suites? No party, it’s just Mr. Takahashi.”

“Please do. I will be down once I am presentable for a diplomatic meeting. Thank you, Commander.” She could not completely hide the grimace at the thought of yet another occasion to pull out her Alliance dress uniform.

Nonetheless, a few minutes later the Rejuvenation Society representative was there. He was a tough, calloused man with a balding head and graying hair, burly in the classically Japanese way, but dressed in Edo period finery. That was a shocking contrast to the jumpsuits and practical miner’s garb of the other Rejuvenation Society leaders seen so far. Elia was standing to the side, making sure that the shipboard hospitality was appropriate. Japanese was in some way the second great culture of her Earth, and she understood the appropriate forms. 

Arriving, Captain Zhen’var pressed her palms together and bowed slightly. “Hajimemashite, Takahashi-san.” Having grown up on the same Earth, the Captain had her own understanding of the forms expected with one who did not speak the language.

He looked archly at the alien woman for a moment, and in particular at the sword buckled on her side. Then he bowed. “Hajimemashite,  _ Battlemaster  _ Zhen’var.” He had been doing his own research.

“The pattern of Dilgar ceremonial swords, and their art of use, is very similar to that of the katana, Takahashi-san. It was not taken as a prize in the war, it was forged for me when I was awarded my commission in the Union’s Navy.”

“I think we understand a great deal of each other,” he replied after a moment, very deliberately. “My people were once the allies of these Germans, but they undid us into utter ruin, such that we would have known a better fate to be defeated in that long-off war.”

“Sometimes one must endure the unendurable, that one may again find pride in a future that cannot be seen from the present. Please, sit. Thank you for coming, I hope we both find satisfaction in what we are to discuss.”

He sat. “Endure the unendurable. How true of you, Battlemaster. When my people made a choice to live, we had to reach our accommodation with this power. We could not forget who we were, in hope of the future and honour of our ancestors. I am one of those whose lineage remembers. The Rejuvenation Society speaks of moral, natural rejuvenation.”

“Such is what we have undergone as well, three lines of thought now coming together once more into one. We are few, but we have rediscovered our spirit and our pride. I encourage you in yours,  _ so long _ as it does not lead to the crushing of others rising to find theirs again in so doing. Just the same, I will not permit them to do the same to you.”

“Battlemaster, your own situation is fortunate. When your rescuers came, you were under arms with a fleet in space. The reality is that you do not control our final fate. And this despite the fact our resistance to the Nazi tyranny has been long. After the defeat of the last resistance in the Americas in the 21st century, Dai-Nippon divided the world with the Reich. It was only as we spread beyond the solar system that we were brought low. But we were not the Reich, not in those days. I understand the Jews, what remained, were the friends of your Alliance from the first, and perhaps showed you the way to defeat the Reich?”

“I do not, but my voice, and my actions, to assist  _ you _ in taking control of your fate.” A pause. “They did assist us, and fight alongside the Alliance in the final campaign. That is correct, Takahashi-san.”

“They got their technology from Japan!” He chuckled softly. “The Kaifeng Jews, the refugees of Russia and the east who came to our lands -- the Jewish Autonomous Oblast of the Soviet Union. These places we had Jews, we did not turn them over to the Reich. When the war was over and we were defeated, we could not bear to see our enemies complete our humiliation. One of my ancestors gave the order, and handed them several star cruisers of the Imperial Japanese Navy, before committing seppuku to avoid more reprisals upon our people from the Germans. That is the story of how they escaped the trap the Reich had laid for them.” He followed her eyes, sharply.

She shifted, leaning back in her chair. “I will seek to confirm the information in a way that raises it to the attention of those responsible for the future course of this world, and others with your people upon them. It speaks very well to your people, and fits with the best of Nippon, her traditions, and her people.”

“I am willing to negotiate with the Bulgarian National Council on the basis of a single planetary government with community power sharing enshrined in the constitution,” he said after a silent moment. “We both have a long time, long history of resisting the Nazi power. Our peoples both fought in many different ways when we were betrayed, we are more alike, even in the ancient past the Bulgarians were Asians. We have common ground, and we are prepared to work to find it. Will you tell them? Will you support the talks? Their greed is short-sighted, but if we can make a mutually advantageous arrangement, we may still win them over.”

“I will. My Marines are holding a small fishing village that is now something of an island of neutrality between your peoples.” She went on, daring to hope, at least a moment. “Your effort has my full support, Takahashi-san. Your people,  _ together,  _ hold more right to this world than any others may, no matter what the extremists may wish in their short-sighted desires.”

“Tomorrow, a conference, if Alferov agrees. The place will be fine.”

“I shall contact him at once, then. Osaki ni shitsureishimasu, Takahashi-san.” She knew her Japanese was not the  _ best _ , but she  _ would _ make the effort. For a moment, at least, it seemed like Drachenfeldt might have an even shot at peace.

  
  
  
  
  


Stepan Stepanovich’s Outlanders Hotel was seeing more business than he had ever dreamed of since the Reich was overthrown. Turned into an impromptu conference facility, a solid hundred people, half from the Bulgarian National Council and half from the Rejuvenation Societies, were packed into its halls. It had been important enough for both Will and Zhen’var to go to the surface, with Commander Imra left in charge on the  _ Huáscar.  _

The Captain, hiding her anxiousness, looked about the place, noting just how  _ many _ were here, and her Marines, holding security in their best, guns pointed outwards and thankful for it.

“Opening session seems to be going well,” Will remarked. “For all the stereotype of diplomacy, nobody was really that unreasonable. When do you think we’ll need to mediate?” 

“Details and timing. Grand statements are easy, concrete commitments are  _ hard _ , Commander. They do not have a lot of time, either, and the Nazis put as much distance between them as they possibly could.”

“Do we have any idea of how to make it work? I know in the Colonies we had absolute Colonial representation regardless of population, but that isn’t considered  _ highly  _ democratic. Seems to be something like what Mr. Takahashi proposed, though.”

“Usually, it works either with an external threat holding everyone together, or an external patron forcing some sort of power-sharing, but those are unstable. His plan  _ should _ work… if there is an external threat to remind of the alternative.”

“So, you’re saying my people are weird,” Will flashed a wry grin. 

“Out of the usual ordinary, perhaps, but I would not call them  _ weird _ , Commander. You  _ chose _ your government, and to prevent tyranny against a lesser-populated division of a nation, it is not unheard of, at the least?”

“You’re right. If only it still mattered…” Will wasn’t the kind of man to dwell, though. He glanced over and started in surprise. “Hmm. I think that’s Alexandra Tambovna.”

“Alexandra Tambovna?” Zhen’var blinked and followed his eyes to the girl organising the serving staff. 

“One of Gergena Tambovna’s children, I saw them in the recordings Stasia’s people took, from the trawler operation.”

“Ah. Brave of them. She must be taking day labour jobs for her family, then. The situation remains very unfortunate on the surface.”

“Yes it does. But maybe we’ll actually have a chance to help with that now.” Will glanced at his omnitool. “It’s almost time for the first session.”

“Well, cover me, I am going in.” She gave a thin smile, as the captain straightened and moved to take her position at the table.

Alferov and  Takahashi sat at the sides. Most of the others weren’t even at the main conference room, they were there just because they were too politically important not to invite.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I and the Alliance are here to mediate, but the work of negotiation and agreement is in bulk, yours. This world is claimed by both of you _ ,  _ gained by the sweat and blood shed under Nazi oppression. I find both cases compelling, as shall my superiors.”

“There is land enough to share on Drachenfeldt,” Alferov said, using the German name. “We have always been prepared to share that. Captain, the Nazis have spent so long degenerating our culture. We want to celebrate it. That is where the crux of our separation comes from. It is not disrespect.”

“The mines, however, are an element that both sides require to be a state capable of standing without constant outside support in the multiverse. That is the issue, is it not?”

“They are the future prosperity of our people,” Alferov replied.

“They are the blood and sweat of our’s,” Takahashi countered. “We did not have a choice but to work them.”

“It was the Nazis who gave you no such choice, miner. As for us, they would let us own nothing else.”

“And yet you both need them, sirs. You  _ both _ need them, as common heritage, or the other will be so weak that another power could swoop down, gain a foothold, and then threaten the one holding the mines. I do not need to speak in hypotheticals, neither can stand without them. Bulgarians do not work them, and Japanese were denied anything  _ but _ working them.”

“We can bring…” 

The  _ look  _ that Takahashi gave to Alferov made him trail off. “Machines? Buying them will cast you into slavery. Yet another group of castoffs? Fight two at once instead of one? Is this what you want to bring to your people?”

“You want the  _ mines,  _ and this…”

“ _ President, _ ” Takahashi then addressed Alferov. “I want the Japanese people of Drachenfeldt to regain their pride. Once we built starships. I do not want us to be a nation in the mines forever.”

“And  _ you _ , Mister President, want the Bulgarian people to do the same. You  _ can _ have national pride without destroying the other. A condominium.”

“A Republic of Both Nations,” Alferov muttered, from some distantly remembered lesson of old Earth history, perhaps. 

“We will share power, fairly. Half the seats in the legislature to each nation,” Takahashi pressed, seeing a moment. 

Alferov looked up dimly. “But the mines? Wait, Captain, do you  _ mean  _ the mines?” 

“I do, President. My suggestion would be that both states be confederated to act in common with foreign relations, in order that others may not pry you apart,  _ both _ states fully sovereign, and with the mines under the control of  _ both _ sides, equally, but owned by neither. The common heritage of the  _ people _ of this world.”

“And the wealth we will lose? Private industry will clamour for compensation.” Alferov looked almost dazed. 

“You would not like it if a true accounting of the cost of our forced labour were taken, President,” Takahashi replied. 

“It is in both your best interests to accept that the mines are not a prize to be fought over, or an issue to be exploited.”

Will stepped in smoothly from where he had been silent at Zhen’var’s side. “Gentlemen, a proposal: All revenue from the condominion will belong to the State, but when the revenue is in excess of needs of both communities, it will automatically be paid toward a fund whose job is to invest and repay the interests of the former private owners.”

The men looked to each other. Alferov squinted. Several of his men were muttering behind him and to his left. There were many who wanted more.

Then Will turned and whispered to Zhen’var’s ear. “ _ A Turian squadron is coming, Captain. _ ”

_ Then we’re out of time.  _ In a moment, paths crystalized before Zhen’var.  _ They deserve a chance.  _ Deliberately, she turned her head, and asked clearly, with a momentary casting of her eyes towards the negotiators; “I am sorry, Commander, I did not hear that. Could you please repeat it?”

“Of course, Captain. A Turian squadron is coming to Drachenfeldt to claim possession for the Hierarchy.”

Alferov’s face lost all expression. His men muttered, and some cursed out loud. The Rejuvenation Society delegates were silent. 

And then the Bulgarian man rose, and extended a hand across the table, his skin pale and a bead of sweat above his eye. “We have a basis for the formation of a provisional government, Mister Takahashi. Vice President.” 

Takahashi shook his hand and then bowed. “We do, and we must be quick. Sir, we share this planet, and, if it becomes necessary, we will also defend it.”

  
  
  
  
  


The next day, Zhen’var gathered her command group for an informal dinner. Properly, Nah’dur, Fei’nur and Anna also counted, but Elia, Abebech and Will were the line officers, and they were all available, anyway, with Lieutenant Arterria watchstanding. Quite astonishingly, since Zhen’var had never seen her drink anything other than wine before, Abebech had a sour Flemish ale, which Elia gave in and followed suit with. 

“Congratulations, we have successfully thus far stopped the planet from bursting into civil conflict on anything more than a moderate scale.” She herself nursed a Tiran fruit liquor, heavily cut with water. “Now the Turians are coming, and I am expecting to have an  _ interesting _ conversation when they do.”

“The Colonies fought many wars like this and only the Cylons brought us to unify with each other,” Will answered. “Once we thought it was something of a wonder it had happened, but now I see it’s really rather typical.”

“I’d agree to that. There’s nothing quite like another threat to be the start of a peace between two rival factions,” Abebech answered. “Of course, the hate … Will linger. But much depends on what happens next.”

“Power sharing governments of the type they want don’t have a great history. Northern Ireland, Cyprus, Lebanon, in Earth history,” Elia said. “And some of their hatred seems scarcely different from what telepaths experience at the hands of normals.” She looked up wryly, glancing in particular to Abebech. 

The woman, who was usually expressionless over such matters, offered a wan smile.

“The alternative is being under a Turian protectorate. Perhaps one might see it as the best solution, but if I endorse that, I endorse the occupation of  _ my _ people the same.” 

Abebech raised her beer. “God Bless the Ottoman Empire,” she said, in a half-serious and half-mocking toast. “Because people like to age with those who look like they do, and be close to one another, with those who think like they do. And so we are here today, holding them apart, and the Turians the next. Normally, to be honest, comrades, I would say a Government of Both Nations is a doomed cause. And yet… There is something to be said for the outside threat. But God forbid you ever see it without one. Forgive me for being a cynic.”

“It’s all right,” Will shook his head. “What was the Ottoman Empire?” 

“A great old Muslim ‘Gunpowder Empire’ from the Early Modern age, still exists in at least one universe I think. Ethnarchs, different laws for different people, but at least in our history their officers in the Balkans would write letters to their friends, saying they were gaolers on a madhouse,” Elia explained. “I remember that part of the Corps political history lesson. The professor was very opinionated and absolutely convinced telepaths would have been treated better in the early modern nations. He was probably right, as sad as it is. There might be something to the Commander’s toast.”

“One can see some virtue - yet one living under an empire that uses force to keep the peace sometimes unbearable.” Sighing, Zhen’var swirled her glass. “It is not wrong, unfortunately. You  _ can _ establish such states, but they are rare. Switzerland, for instance, is the famous example, as is Canada and Quebec.”

“Does that obviate us of the need to make the attempt? I think not,” Abebech replied. “So, perhaps we can nudge things. It is not our obligation as Alliance offers to allow the Turians to trample on the rights of others, that is a different thing than the promise of actual possession for this world.”

Will grimaced tightly. “Well, we can’t go against the agreements of our own government either, Commander.” Few people called Imra  _ Abebech,  _ rather than by her rank. But Will certainly felt in that moment she was trending toward something perhaps best not said out loud.

“Certainly not,” Abebech replied modestly. “Still, it is the general intent of the Alliance to promote participatory self-government and democratic norms. We all swore to uphold that. The Harris Station Charter doesn’t change it in the slightest.”

“The  _ moral  _ choices are the hardest part of our service.” Zhen’var’s eyes flickered around the table. “Regardless, we have our orders. The Hierarchy  _ is  _ coming, though I  _ also  _ see a responsibility to ensure that the coalition we have just helped to birth can negotiate with any effort to  _ impose _ rule upon them.”

“Understood,” Abebech smartly answered. There was nothing more on it from her, but one couldn’t help but feel she had been given her marching orders clearly enough.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Violeta was sitting down, having a ‘Southwest Chicken Salad’ from the replicator and trying the coffee, which was at least authentic. The Hospitality section had installed an old style steel pot coffee maker because some of the crew from universes without replicators had actually grown up used to the subtle change in flavour from the keep-warm pot and preferred it, and there was no way a replicator could keep up with that. Apparently the rumour had it that’s  _ all  _ the Chief’s Mess drank, but there were nonhuman Chiefs so she doubted it. The original grounds were a blend called ‘Nantucket’ from some company in an American state called Vermont, she wasn’t sure of the universe. A part of her wondered why the hell she’d given in and tried it and another part was worried she was going to start liking it.  _ Actually, that’s probably the same feeling. Sheesh. _

The wardroom had the local news broadcast on the tri-dee. Some young Bulgarian guy with a big bouffant hairdo and an old-style business suit talked a mile a minute on it, everything he said was a lie (and sometimes patently racist enough to make Violeta’s eyes goggle), and it was great black humour if you were so inclined. A couple of pilots at the bar kept laughing loudly at every cringing, ridiculous thing he said, including claiming that the artillery of the ‘Panthers’ paramilitaries was blessed by God so that it would never miss and that the Alliance troops would have been defeated without BNC assistance, when of course the BNC troops had never left their cantonments to fight the IARO over the risk of defections.

The screen flashed to an animation of a stereotypical Nazi depiction of a Jew with his hands rubbing together. “In our next segment we will consider if a Jewish element incited the Internal Apraxin Revolutionary Organization through false-flag operations to attack the Bulgarian National leadership. Doktor- _ naut  _ Bogdan Princip,” he welcomed his guest.

“Jesus Christ, that’s enough!” One of the pilots shouted and flipped the channel back to the Armed Forces Network in the middle of a segment on the importance of Fall Protection Training. “How the fuck did that Peacham dude let this shit on the air?” 

Violeta sighed in relief. It was nice to know her crewmates had limits. 

Another voice spoke up from the food replicators. “Lieutenant Ferguson, I do believe the Brigadier is trying to set an example with permitting a relatively free press. Unfortunately the sentiments of the people do not really live up to it,” Arterus explained from his food line. 

“So they’re not really monitoring it? Then why was the pirate broadcast illegal?”

“Well, they’re trying to prevent specific incitement, so only approved channels are going up, but nobody is monitoring them in advance. I rather expect they will get in trouble for it later. Commander Saumarez explained to me what the problem with the Jews and the Reich was, though I confess I still don’t really understand it.”

“I don’t think  _ anyone  _ does, Lieutenant,” Ferguson answered. 

Arterus shook his head wryly. Violeta gestured for him to come over. “Hey, Arterus. Come on.”

“Ah, thank you…” He trailed off for a moment. “Violeta. I confess I’m not used to that.” 

“Oh, it’s fine.” She watched him sit. “I see you didn’t avail yourself of the coffee pot.”

“It’s hardly going to be as strong as hholaer,” he answered with a chuckle, gesturing to his cup on his tray. 

“Rihannsu equivalent to coffee?”

“It’s more like the Indigenous American black drink, but much stronger. So yes.”

“What’s the food?”

“ _ Feihha _ . Chief Héen described it as, what was it, ‘ _ Spanakopita stuffed with cheese, oysters and jalapenos’  _ when I got her to try to it.”

“...I might try that sometime, actually. How are things?” 

“I  _ think  _ I’m starting to actually understand what the Captain is doing. I went to Commander Imra for advice and she gave me a reading list. To some extent I believe the United Federation of Planets practices a lot of this, just in a different guise. It’s interesting. Commander Imra’s reputation certainly doesn’t suggest she’d support it, but she does.”

“It’s kind of a mission-oriented tactics development for starship operations, in a way, I think,” Violeta replied. “You should forward me that reading list. Commander Imra is… Distant, but nobody is going to deny she’s one of the best starship commanders we have. Captain Andreys even said as much on the  _ Aurora  _ once.”

“She reminds me of a certain kind of stereotypical Rihannsu female officer, usually commanding a Warbird on the frontier until well past the age of a hundred and fifty. I’ve thought my cousin has the making of the type before…”

“Your cousin?” 

Before Arterus could answer, his eyes jerked to his omnitool. “Hmm, perhaps we should bring the broadcast from the surface back up.”

“Arterus… Let’s not?” Violeta grimaced.

“No, no, it’s an official government announcement.” That got everyone’s attention, since more often than not Big Deal News was discovered by people in the military by watching news broadcasts, just like everyone else.

The screen returned to the image of the Bulgarian station, but the reporter was gone. Instead, they were focusing in on a podium, on which stood three Bulgarian and three Japanese men. 

President Alferov was speaking. “People of Drachenfeldt, I stand before you today with representatives of the Rejuvenation Societies. We, of the Bulgarian National Council and the Rejuvenation Societies, have come to the true and profound realisation that Drachenfeldt is big enough for all of us. Tensions between our peoples were intentionally created by,” Violeta cringed and for a moment wondered what he’d say, then he continued, fortunately, with “the Nazi tyranny and exacerbated by disputes over the Mines.”

“The reality is that the Multiverse at large has many knives out for planets which can’t keep the peace among their own people,” he continued. “We cannot afford war among ourselves when greater, inestimably greater, challenges remain for the peace of our world. We have agreed to this and to a principle for condominion over the mines, to share the great wealth which will make us strong. Accordingly, we have agreed to a Declaration of Independence of the Confederal Republic of Drachenfeldt, on the basis of equality of both nations, Bulgarian and Japanese.”

“Third declaration of a new country for Drachenfeldt in a week,” Ferguson chuckled. “We’ll see how long  _ this  _ one will last.”

Arterus was looking thoughtful, though, as he turned back to Violeta. “Perhaps, just perhaps, longer than the others.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Second Lieutenant James Canusco, Alliance Marines, had his platoon stretched across two roadblocks at a converging V intersection around a ‘flatiron’ building which had been lightly damaged in the fighting with the IARO. The primary function of the continuing roadblocks in the city was to prevent concentrations of troops and insure the security of the government district. They had sensors deployed in the sewers, drones on patrol, and forward detection sensors in the buildings out from the checkpoints for a quarter mile. 

Against another attack by the IARO, it would have been totally adequate. As it was there was a small cluster of people with Bulgarian nationalist signs and placards who were protesting a hundred meters down the street, but they were outside of the mandatory stop line and hadn’t tried approaching it or started growing in numbers. A few beaten down old bums were drinking in the deserted streets, possibly from liquor bottles they had plundered from dead IARO men, but the bodies had all been collected and the fire department had washed down the blood and burnt debris. The calm was, in its own way, utterly unnerving. 

There were a few businesses open since it was daylight, and people simply needed to get supplies considering they were all under a curfew. James stepped out of his headquarters to check on his men and take smoko. He lit up after checking the squads and stood still, taking a moment to watch some people going in and out of a deli. They were mostly carrying fresh baked bread, rough-hewn natural loaves, prepared food, cans of condensed milk with supplies from outside the city interrupted. It was bad enough to make field meals look appetizing, really. 

“Lieutenant, Sir! We’ve got a signature!” 

The voice of his sensors WO from inside made him drop the cigarette into the dry concrete of the street and dash inside. His sensor section for the platoon had one WO and two specialists, operating the complicated but highly automated network of drones and autonomous deployed sensors which instrumented the front they were covering in their sector. 

“Go ahead, Kelli,” he reached for a water bottle and leaned in. 

“Sir,” she tapped on the controller and highlighted a grid section, georeferenced with a 3D map of the city buildings. “There’s a group following the lateral Nederstrasse. The signatures are consistent with about twenty-two individuals in SS Panzergrenadier armour. And they’re using the stealth systems properly, I can barely pick them up at all.”

“Well, that’s considerably more competent than the last batch… Jesus.” He activated a comm channel. “Bikie to Shovel, we’ve got a detachment in SS Panzergrenadier armour going up the Nederstrasse.”

“Bikie,” the Dilgar’s voice answered in her growling British accent, “this is Shovel. Move out half your platoon and get in their rear. Further orders will be forthcoming from Condenser.”

“Understood, Sir.” Fei’nur’s voice was terse and she’d immediately moved on to other things. After the initial contact report it was his company commander’s job to give him orders anyway. What  _ she  _ was up to was answered moments later as James split his troops and started at a dog-trot down the right-hand street. 

Explosions ripped the air as the company mortar section engaged and the crisp sounds of backwoods yankeedom echoed on his channel. “Bikie, they are confirmed hostile and we are providing support, get those positions now and cut ‘em off!” Condenser was already in action.

With a snap survey of the buildings and an omnitool projection showing their interiors, he selected positions above the  _ strasse  _ and broke off fire-teams with his heavy support weapons to hold them. Orders were given in radio silence with hand gestures as explosions erupted across the city. A few civvies were still running for cover from the streets, leaping into the entrances to the cellars of rowhouses. They ignored them and dashed up to their positions, ultimately James taking cover in the natural foxhole of a partial opening to a basement window a few feet below sidewalk level, facing the Nederstrasse. Another fireteam charged across the street, and as they did, disruptor fire erupted after them. 

Explosions of mortar bombs rent the sky, his helmet’s auto-polarization protecting his eyes as the line of detonations walked the street around the attackers and covered the final dash of the fireteam. They made it all right across the street, and promptly began pulse fire toward the Panzergrenadiers. From above his head one of the heavy pulse cannon opened fire and caught a Panzergrenadier repositioning as the mortar fire faded. Satisfyingly, the suited figured dropped as a hail of fire swept the street, converging on them from buildings on both sides. 

Even so, these men had responded professionally to being attacked from two directions at once and were holding their own, positioning a rear-guard as most concentrated to continue driving forward at all. They simply behaved nothing at all like the recklessly brave but ill-disciplined IARO men, and altogether a great deal like actual SS troops, which just a few weeks ago James had been fighting. He didn’t like that  _ at all. _

“Condenser, this is Bikie.” His Company commander was a dyed in the wool Rhode Island swamp yankee and grew up playing with steam tractors with her dad. It showed. Fortunately, she was clever enough to be quick on the uptake. His explanation was as blunt as it could be. “These aren’t IARO cunts. They’re Real Deal SS.”

“Roger that, Bikie. We’re getting multiple reports, and…” The rest of the sentence dissolved as James was bodily thrown back into the building hard enough for his armour to chip and unseat bricks. The explosion partially collapsed the hole as his armour padding compressed to minimise damage from the compression blow in the back and the hardshell rejected the concrete fragments in front. 

A group of Panzergrenadiers from the rearguard stormed straight toward him, laying down their own covering fire with their suit-attached micro missile launchers, visible through the acrid smoke and clouds of concrete dust. There was only one pulse gun firing from his position back at them, and that meant nothing good, as he overcame the shock to his senses and opened fire with his own to augment it. The commo chirped, the message coming from the corporal leading the heavy weapons section in the building right above. “El-Tee, evacuate straight into the basement, we’re gonna put down a line of grenades on ‘em when they hit your position!”

That was insane, but he had only seconds and otherwise the SS had him dead by rights. “Fall back through the windows!” He shouted, and Private Marriss got on it, kicking them in. But Corporal Tucker was clearly never moving again and Specialist Anderson was twitching in the side of the pit. He lunged for the man, and dragging him by his feet, hauled him into the basement. As he did, one of the SS panzergrenadiers came  _ through  _ the window and the battered wall. 

The moment that the attacker did, the world outside exploded as a hurled  _ bundle  _ of zip-tied grenades exploded in unison into the midst of the SS attack and the fireteam across the street raked the very position he had been in seconds before. The SS man inside the basement with him rose to his feet despite the blast, the building having partially shielded him. 

There were only seconds, less than seconds, and James formed a hardlight blade from his omnitool and lunged, going for the close-quarters drill with a pistol in the other hand. The blade skittered across the armour until it caught a joint as he fired the pistol again and again, energy bursts pumping into the armour of the Panzergrenadier. They toppled back into the wall, but then a power-reinforced mailed gauntlet sent him flying away, slamming into someone’s pile of old boxes. 

But the SS man was missing an arm, and as he turned one of his suit weapons toward James, Private Marriss’ rifle barked again and again. Gouges and chunks were torn into the armour at close-range on the max power setting for the rifle, and finally the SS trooper toppled down. A dim kind of calm prevailed, even as the roar of combat echoed unendingly outside. They were, for the moment, alive. 

  
  
  
  
  


On the bridge of the  _ Huáscar,  _ the reports from Fei’nur had steadily become more abbreviated as the situation developed. Finally, she came back on the channel. “Captain, do you have a squadron orbiting with small-diameter bombs?”

“Yes, Colonel, we do have air support we can use in the city with minimal collateral.”

“Thank you, Captain. We need to deconflict this situation urgently. The primary target of the SS was not our forces, it was the Confederal Provisional Government and party offices and officers of the Bulgarian National Council. They were aiming for a decapitation strike on the Council, not a coup de main against us. The Panteri have deployed to assist us and are also involved in heavy combat with the SS, but there is no coordination.” 

“Colonel, are you asking for permission to directly coordinate with the BNC and the Panteri officers to engage the SS stay-behinds?”

“Yes, Captain. It is the best course of action.”

“And Brigadier Peacham’s opinion?”

“Captain, I do not believe that man is suitable to make the best decisions for protecting our forces and defeating the enemy in these circumstances.”

Zhen’var flashed her fangs. That was a serious condemnation from Fei’nur, but hardly surprising in the context of what had happened during the IARO attacks. For affirmation, she shot a look to Will, who nodded simply. “She’s the woman on the ground, Captain.”

“Permission granted, reach out to Alferov at once.” 

“Thank you, Captain.” The channel blinked off. 

“There will be consequences,” Zhen’var remarked as Elia quickly went to work handling fire support requests. It didn’t take long for the consequences to materialise, either. Brigadier Peacham contacted her on a priority channel. 

“Captain, I understand you have authorized collaboration with the Bulgarian National Council?” 

“Absolutely, Brigadier,” Zhen’var answered calmly. “It was necessary in the circumstances to restore order, and I might add that your troops have also been very badly pressed. Surely you must have seen the necessity of this.”

“Captain, the Turians are arriving within the hour. We could have held on long enough to hand the situation over to them. You have now immeasurably complicated that process.”

“Brigadier, my first interest remains to preservation of life and defeat of the enemy. We were not fighting the IARO, but Nazis. My action is correct and I am content with it.”

“Correct, Captain?” He glared. “You are a  _ Captain  _ and I am the ranking allied officer and Governor.”

“That is… Incorrect.” Zhen’var folded her hands. “I am a  _ Battlemaster  _ as an allied officer. While a Brigadier in the Alliance military may rank me, a Brigadier in another associated military manifestly does not, and I was not placed under your operational command.” 

“Very well,  _ Battlemaster.  _ You are the one who will give an accounting to your superiours for your decision to harm the conditions of occupation for the Turian Hierarcy. Do you think you have the right to order me to follow this course of action as well, then?” 

“I believe I have the right as one officer to another to recommend to you in the strongest terms possible that you cooperate militarily with the Confederal Government,” Zhen’var answered. “Indeed, it will be I, not you, who answer for this course of action. Keep your men alive, Brigadier.” 

_ “Very Well. _ ” The channel blinked out without the usual pleasantries. 

Growling, Zhen’var got up from her command chair. “Will, you have the conn. Let me know when the Turians reach orbit.” With that, she disappeared into her ready room. 

  
  
  
  


She did not have to wait long, musing as she worked on reports and drank chai on why the SS had attacked at what was really the worst time for them.  _ Perhaps they thought that the Confederal government meant they had lost their chance.  _ Regardless, it had nicely completed the work that she had started with Will, Elia and Abebech. Sometimes one shouldn’t look gift horses in the mouth, but it left Zhen’var with a naggling feeling. 

Ninety minutes in, Will called her from the bridge. “Captain, the Turian General is hailing us.” 

“Thank you, Will.” She sat down her more cup after emptying it, and without bothering to sign the last form, stepped out and back onto the bridge. They were still at modified stations, and she took her time to get settled into her command chair. “On-screen.” 

The image flashed into existence, showing a brilliantly armoured Turian with a group of more around him on the flagbridge of his cruiser. “This is the  _ Tarallus,  _ General Keranus commanding. Captain Zhen’var, I have arrived on the behest of my government to seize, administer, and annex the planet Drachenfeldt for the Turian Hegemony. You are hereby directed to have your troops on the surface prepare landing positions for my troops and to take measures to secure the civilian population until we can assume responsibility for the maintenance of regular order.” 

  
It seemed like every eye on the bridge of the  _ Huáscar  _ turned toward her. Notwithstanding her command style, this was one call Zhen’var alone had to make. She settled back, and for a moment was silent. 


	5. Act 5 and Tag

**Act 5**

  
  
  
  
  


“General Keranus,” Zhen’var replied calmly, though her claws skittered unpleasantly on the granite slabs on her armrests. “I cannot.”

“You  _ cannot _ ? Captain Zhen’var, we are allies, and the situation on the surface must be immediately brought under control! The planet is a hotbed of armed factions with fighting already going on. I  _ insist  _ you assist me in taking immediate measures to impose order.” 

She took a breath, and tried to will herself to remain outwardly composed. “I cannot, General. My forces are currently integrated with those of the Coalition government in defending against the attacks by the Reich guerilla forces. It would take some time to withdraw and re-deploy them, which I cannot begin to do until such time as the fighting is over. You will need to involve the Defense Ministry of the Confederal Republic in your planning if you wish it sooner than this.”

“Captain, this so-called Confederal Republic is pretending to territory that the Harris Station Charter assigned to the Turian Hierarchy and that I am under orders to place under Turian military administration as territory of the Hierarchy,” he answered stiffly. “Surely your superiours have made you aware of this.”

“They have, General. You were not present when the  _ Werwolf _ elements attacked. I had no choice but to act. My orders have been given, and my forces are engaged alongside elements of the Republic in resisting  _ Reich _ stay-behind forces. I cannot change those facts, General Keranus.”

“What you are telling me is that I must wait in orbit while substantial forces armed with Reich weapons consolidate their control over the surface  _ with your assistance?  _ This will lead to ten thousand dead Turians and a protracted guerrilla campaign, Captain. You have put me in a serious position.” His rigid, expressionlessly armoured face was a perfect glower of silver, though he knew the reputation of Dilgar enough to not even bother with petty attempts to intimidate her. Never had their like existed in the whole history of Council space.

“Only if you attack them, General. They are willing negotiators, with long histories of resistance to Reich rule.” She refused to be baited, refused to even admit she  _ might _ have done something wrong.

“They are willing negotiators?” There was a pause. “I will not go to the surface until my troops have gone to the surface, Captain. However, I will meet with their representatives aboard the  _ Huáscar. _ I am not pleased with this course of events, but nor am I interested in needlessly provoking prospective citizens of the Hierarchy when they are actively engaged with Reich holdout forces. We will  _ talk.  _ No preconditions, Captain, make that clear to them. I can give them no preconditions.”

“I do not believe they expect them. The  _ Huáscar  _ shall stand ready to assist. I shall inform them as soon as the fighting permits the effort.”

“I will be standing by with my staff for invitation to the  _ Huáscar. Tarallus,  _ out.”

Elia looked across the bridge to Zhen’var. “Captain, shall we raise the Confederal government, or wait until the situation has been stabilised?”

“Raise them now. As callous as it may sound, they will gain more with the Turians if their forces are still actively engaged when they sit down to negotiate.”

“Of course, Captain!” There was a little grin as she turned back to her console and ordered Lieutenant Tor'jar to establish the connection.

  
  
  
  
  


An hour later, Alferov arrived on the  _ Huáscar  _ with Noburo Shiba, the appointed Foreign Minister of the government, and a brace of guards from each of the Confederal Armies, who managed to be attired in disconcerting throwback uniforms to the last days of their respective ethnicities’ independence. 

Zhen’var had insisted on full military honors for them all, as she herself felt her stomach flutter at just how far she had exceeded the spirit, if not letter, of her orders.

That meant full dress, and Abebech had offered to come, Elia was there as well while Will had the conn, both of them if anything looking happier in the stiffer, formal whites than they did in their regular service uniforms. She introduced her officers, in particular, “Commander Abebech Imra, Captain of the ASV  _ Heermann. _ ”

“Captain Zhen’var,” Alferov offered. “Thank you for the invitation. The Turian General will be arriving shortly?” He was sweaty and nervous, Elia could feel the fear for the future of his people bleeding from him.

“He will. Turians are a very…  _ military _ and ordered people. They also have their pride. You will have to make concessions. Possibly accept a protectorate, with terms you will have to jointly fight hard to keep tolerable. They  _ are _ willing to invade if they think they have no other choice, that, you must remember, but we have given you a chance to prove your worth to them, not merely as subjects.”

“A  _ protectorate?  _ How is that better than what the Nazis gave us, Captain?” His hands fidgeted, he gestured idly, his eyes shook sharply.

Elia offered a bland smile as she breezed in to interpose herself and disrupt the Bulgarian President from working himself into a rage. “We can discuss, if you like, some options, why don’t we walk to the conference suite?” 

“Ahh, Commander -- Saumarez, was it?”

“Yes,” she offered, proactively engaging rather than letting the anxiety the Bulgarian President felt continue to creep toward her. < _ He’s not thinking about immediately bellowing threats now,> _ Elia casted to Zhen’var. < _ All from surface thoughts, promise.> _

“Turians do not mean it as a euphemism. They  _ actually _ mean a protectorate in the  _ proper _ sense. That your people fight against the Reich for generations, and do so now, will earn you credit in their eyes.”

“And what part of fairness…”

“Your Excellency,” Abebech spoke. She looked  _ stunning  _ in her full dress uniform. And a little bit like a dictator herself. “Since the Melian Dialogue of Thucydides one can hardly say that fairness has been an important calculation in the affairs of state. What I can say is that my Government is more reasonable than most. The Tarnovo Constitution of Bulgaria, which your people still celebrate, was not the constitution of an independent state. It was the constitution of a Suzerainty of the Ottoman Empire, the Principality of Bulgaria. It was nonetheless freedom, and independence followed thirty years later.”

“You know our history very well, Commander,” he offered, brought up short. “You are… Correct. Do you think the Turians would accept the terms in the Tarnovo Constitution?” 

“You might start with that as your negotiating position,” Abebech answered, “but it’s hardly my place to say more.” 

The suite they entered had two sets of tables laid out, one with food for Turians, one for the rest. The hospitality staff was at attention. 

Zhen’var gave a single nod of approval to the assembled staff, and spun to present herself at the entrance, waiting for the Turians. Her people had been coming together well, and the captain made a mental note to get them at least some on-ship liberty in the coming days if this all worked out, in the end.

Abebech had peeled off to return to the transporter room. She came back ten minutes later, leading General Keranus. “General Keranus, Commander, 82nd Combined Heavy-Assault Korps and 82nd Support Assault Taskgroup, Turian Hegemony. General, presenting to you Captain Zhen’var and Lieutenant Commander Elia Saumarez of the  _ Huáscar,  _ and President Ivan Alferov and Foreign Minister Noburo Shiba of the Confederal Republic of Drachenfeldt.” She bowed punctiliously. 

“General.” Zhen’var stiffened her spine and saluted reflexively, internally cursing herself for it immediately after The Turians were still a ‘friendly’ ally, after all, and it wasn’t her they were here to negotiate with.

“Captain.” He looked to President Alferov and Minister Shiba. “If you gentlemen would sit,” he gestured to the table. “Our kind hosts from the Alliance are trying to find common ground for us. I admit the Captain’s resolve is impressive in this matter. Captain, you and your officers of course should join us.” 

_ A Dilgar as a diplomat. Will wonders never cease? _ She moved to sit, after the delegation from the planet and the Turian force. What was to come would be intensely delicate, even now. All she had done was give it a  _ chance _ .

“Our combined peoples have fought the Nazi regime for centuries of resistance, both in active combat and passive resistance, as circumstances dictated,” Minister Shiba began, rising. “You have suffered greatly in liberating the Reich from the Nazi Tyranny, and we respect that suffering from the Turian Hegemony, and the effort and treasure expended which without worlds like Drachenfeldt would be without result. However, the reality is that we have spent centuries under their groaning yoke. We are pleased to accept the assistance of our allies, but remember that we are your allies.” 

“Here are the troops fighting on the ground,” the Bulgarian Aide-de-Camp to the President stepped forward in his crisp green and white uniform and brought up the holographic projections of the hard fighting in the capital that was still ongoing, tanks brake-steering on the street and firing into buildings as disruptor fire stuttered across buildings, aerials flying the National Tricolour of the BNC as men in camo hunched down in the tenuous cover of the back of the turret, wearing repainted Nazi helmets or in some cases, just bandanas wrapped around the forehead. 

The Turians leaned forward in professional interest. After they had watched to their satisfaction, the image changed to one of Rejuvenation Society troops driving toward the capital in heavy articulated mining trucks formed into long convoys, shouting Banzai and thrusting their rifles into the air as the amazed Bulgarians in the towns near the capitol watched them go. “Our forces are under unified control and fighting for unfiied purposes,” Shiba said simply. “We in fact already have the situation well in hand, though the Defence Ministry is pleased to work directly with you to assist in the deployment of your troops. These  _ Werwolf  _ elements can be quickly suppressed at that point.”

“You are are very eager for cooperation, and it is good.” Keranus stroked his mandibles. “Of course, you think or speak little of the fact you should be citizens of the Hierarchy. In principle I have no difficulty operating with your improvised forces.” 

“The matter is one of our cultural development, General,” President Alferov faced him squarely. “We are prepared to accept a relationship with the Turian Hegemony, that is not in dispute. However, for the sake of our long and continuous resistance to the Nazi Tyranny, we want the autonomy for the cultural development of our peoples. I trust that you are not an unreasonable man. Are we to become soft-skinned Turians? Surely it’s ridiculous for humans to live by your laws, but we are not a conquered people, you have just admitted that.” 

General Keranus rocked back a bit, and then chuckled. “So I have, it does seem.” He flicked an eye to the ramrod straight soldiers of the two Armies. “Two separate military forces, one for each of your peoples.”

“Yes, but coordinated by a single ministry,” Shiba explained.

“We will coordinate operations with that ministry and allow your forces to keep order over your own people. I can easily offer that.”

“General, what we need is a permanent agreement covering our relationship with the Hegemony,” Alferov answered.

“We  _ have  _ a proposal,” Shiba added, and then, with a flourish, presented it, translated into Turian already. “Though it makes allowances for the nature of our confederal Republic, you will find it adapts to the practical position of Suzerainty the Hierarchy shall hold, and is based on the famous old Bulgarian Tarnovo Constitution. We are familiar with its principles and all agreed to be prepared to follow it.” 

General Keranus held the document for a moment. He didn’t read it, he just regarded the two men. “You’re going to fight if you don’t get this,” he said simply. 

“We are free peoples and we won our freedom ourselves. We are prepared to work with you, but it does not change that we are nations in arms who keep our own honour, General.”

Keranus looked sharply at Shiba and said nothing. He handed the document to one of his subordinates. Then, finally, he looked to Zhen’var. “Captain, I need secure facilities for consulting with my government.”

  
  
  
  


An hour later, General Keranus returned to the conference suite. When he did, one of his Aides started to go over the proposed constitution line for line. What followed was eight hours of debate that crystalized in the following agreement: The Confederation of Drachenfeldt will be under Turian Protection, but fully independent internally; the mines will operate under Turian law and trade regimes, but the joint ownership arrangement between the Bulgarians and Japanese will be recognised. The Turians will directly annex and rule those areas 100% German in ethnic character. The militaries of the two halves of the Confederation would remain separate and coordinated by the Ministry of the Confederation, and the Confederation would still share the Capital with the Turian Governor’s administration, the capital district being separate from both the Turian occupational districts and the Confederation and under its own autonomous municipal administration.

In that, Zhen’var could see parallels to Chandigarh, the famous planned city of horrifying architecture and capital to two states while belonging to neither--though at least Saackenweld would never be quite so horrible looking. Still, as she listened, and they concurred on sending the details of the final loose protectorate to the British Stellar Union for adjudication, she could feel a real sense of sincerity in both the Turian and Confederal representatives. Some of the decisions were odd, and sometimes they were clearly unhappy. Nonetheless, it was real diplomacy at work.

Before they had finished, the Turians had already received permission to begin landing troops, and Zhen’var mercifully got the updates from Fei’nur that their arrival, along with reinforcements, had immediately turned the tide in the city. Now it would just be days until they could withdraw fully and hand the planet over to the Republic and the Turians. 

Finishing late in the evening, Keranus smiled, a glittering, dangerous thing as a Turian smile was. “You are lucky, President Alferov, to have such an excellent Alliance advocate in the form of Captain Zhen’var. And thank you for your hospitality, Captain.”

“You are welcome. I believe I have merely represented the best principles of the Alliance.” 

“Perhaps you have, Captain. I am thankful to come to a fair agreement, though Drachenfeldt will certainly mean more work than we had originally thought. President, Minister.” He saluted.

After Keranus left, Alferov stepped close to Zhen’var, and then paused, an uncomfortable look on his face before it became a faint smile. “I confess I am very thankful for your wisdom, Captain. I did not know what to expect when aliens arrived, but you stood up for us as other humans would not. You will always be welcome on Drachenfeldt.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency, though it was as much the wisdom of my crew. I think you will find the prospects for advancement and recovery for your people much improved with your relationship with the Turians. We might have suffered for it, together, but there is very little which we are not glad for, giving you the chance to find yourselves after the long night after the Nazi Reich.”

Shiba bowed. “Your people will inspire us, Captain. Regeneration will, in time, come.”

  
  
  
  
  


Nah’dur’s sickbay was carefully configured to make patients as comfortable as possible. She had obtained holographic displays for the walls which displayed calming scenes and provided patients with headsets to play calming music. All of it was based on research into the psychology of healing, and the woman neglected nothing in the preparation of food and monitoring of patients. 

It all felt a little overdone to James. He still felt like crap from the multiple broken ribs, though he was due to be released soon. The fighting had ended in the capital and on the planet generally after Rejuvenation Society reinforcements and the first tranche of Turian troops had arrived. He had remained in action in command of his platoon for twenty-two hours after his ribs had been broken, and still felt pretty much like ass, but with the painkillers in him he was sure it was fatigue by now. 

His commander walked through the door, still in her field BDUs, though bereft of armour. “Hey, Bikie.” Sarah Travis rubbed at her face. “Wanted to come see you before I hit the shower. And everyone else.”

“Ugh, the Surgeon-Commander hasn’t told me how many we got in here, boss,” he sighed and squirmed and a bit. “All pulled back from the planet?”

“Naw, we’ve still got one company at Apraxin and another Company on special tasking with the Colonel personally, but all the security peeps have been recalled. We have the worst casualties though so we ended up going back up with security.”

“How many?” He asked tightly.

“Six dead, thirty-three in sickbay.”

“Christ, that’s rough. SS tossers.”

“I hope it’s the last time we ever fight these damn Nazis,” she agreed. “Look, I’m sorry about Corporal Tucker. You guys did good, got your job done… And I’m sorry he didn’t pull through.” 

“Unfortunately, it isn’t the first time I’ve seen it happen. But if it’s the last time it’s with these shits… Good enough, I guess. I thought this goddamned war was supposed to be over.”

“When has it ever been that easy, I guess, right?”

“In hell, right next to the unicorns and lollypops.”

  
  
  
  
  


The Turian troops had been conveyed to the surface, and the  _ Huáscar  _ was in the process of recovering her own equipment. As part of her ongoing effort to reach out to the woman, Abebech had agreed to a private weekly dinner with Zhen’var, and arrived in mufti, a gracious but heavy green dress with traditional African patterns on the fringe and full length opera gloves, though her hair still aggressively pulled back to the point it looked like it had to hurt. The woman apparently, in the fullness of her own time, went decidedly classy at all costs. 

Zhen’var might be the first Dilgar to choose a sari as her semi-formal clothing when she was in mufti, and she smiled to Imra. “Good evening… would you prefer your rank or your name in  _ this _ particular setting?”

“You can call me Abebech, Captain. It  _ is  _ my name. I mean, the one I was given when I was born. I know there’s been some idle speculation on that, but I came in to the service cleanly.” She smiled faintly. “Thank you for the consideration.”

“You  _ do _ intimidate most of our subordinates, Abebech. You may call me Zhen’var in private. That  _ is _ my name, as much as propaganda from the world I was born on disagrees… or emphasizes, depending on the source.”

Abebech chuckled. “I would never think otherwise, Zhen’var. Your name is a reflection of who you are and an expression of belonging. For me, what I belong to is not really here anymore, so I cherish it all the more, but that’s beside the point. Why would a Dilgar not wish to cherish her clan? You are Var, and I, at least, think you have something to be proud of in that.”

The Dilgar woman’s smile froze for a moment, before she shook her head with a smile. “Thank you for that. On Earth, it was rarely so friendly, but now, my people and yourself… all accept that I am of a two woman clan, and that is that.” She took a sip of her wine with a still-pleased expression. “Anyhow, it was very fortunate the Nazis attacked when they did. It would have been much harder to give everyone a remotely acceptable ending otherwise.”

“Well, you’re quite right. The Nazis would have, attacking as the Turians arrived, turned themselves into leaders of a resistance movement.” She smiled tightly. “Of course, we have comms evidence that suggests they thought the Turians had already arrived. The fog of war causes such things for our enemy as well as ourselves.”

There was a flash in Zhen’var’s eyes, as they widened sharply for a moment. “I… see. It is to our benefit they made such an error, then. It  _ has  _ ended very well.”

“We are in the business of solving problems, Captain, and I believe we have done so in a way that will win us commendation from our commanders,” Abebech replied, looking idly at her own wine, or presumably so, from the angle of her opaque sunglasses. 

“Well, you will be recommended for about three kinds of promotion when your next performance review crosses my desk, so do not think you will get out of eventually having to deal with things like this yourself. And I  _ told _ you to call me by my name.” She finished with a smile, amused at her attacker commander’s reaction, and starting to wonder just what hidden depths Abech Imra held.

“Zhen’var, apologies. I am rather formal, but I suspect you noticed.” Her lips quirked into a hint of a smile. 

“That we compete to be the best dressed woman in the room in civilian clothes has, in fact, crossed my mind, among other things. Now, just what mixture of raw meat have you come up with this time, and can I make it with pork? I find my tastes have shifted quite impressively.”

“I’m willing to try  _ anything  _ raw. For example there’s an excellent German dish of raw minced pork, that one is fine indeed. Shall we…?”

“Oh, let us  _ indeed _ , though I am sure my mother would roll her eyes and tell me that cooking was invented for a reason.”

“It was, but it wasn’t my reason,” Abebech replied slyly. “Merciful God, but I find myself very grateful for your acquaintance,” she remarked as she keyed in the replicator. “For the most part, I enjoy serving under you because you are, indeed, a woman after my own heart.”

“I, in turn, think you should be at least a Captain of the Line, and am starting to have my suspicions confirmed, that you are… full of unexpected skills, Abebech. I intend to do my utmost to ensure the Alliance has a chance to make use of them.”

“We’ll see if the Alliance wants me in that role. In the meantime, I am pleased to be an expert of practice in my current profession, and your assistant. There is something to be said for the opportunity to mentor the young officers around me, as well, without an elevated position that would constrain my abilities. I have sought promotion, I do admit, and so far I have not received it to a further level, and was instead assigned to  _ Huáscar.  _ But if I am here awhile, it will be fine. Captain, I am not the kind of person who lusts for glory and fame. If I may do right in a Commander’s rate, it is fine enough. I should like to think my character carries through.”

“It does. That is why I am recommending you for promotion. Still, enough about that. Now, did any of those young officers stand out in the last action…?” Lapsing back into familiar, comfortable topics, Zhen’var found herself content with what she’d started to carve out with Abebech Imra.

  
  
  
  
  
  


They were about two days out from departure with the Turians settling down on the surface to the new arrangement with the Confederal Republic. Anna was drinking yet another mug of coffee as she sat in a sync meeting with flight operations. “So, the last issue right now is basically magazine handling arrangements with the spacecraft munition stores?” She used the table interface to generate the appropriate prints. 

“That’s correct, Commander,” Lar’shan answered, glancing to Stasia. “Chief?” 

“So, the problem is the anti-flash gasket. The autonomous handling carts can’t go over it, which means it’s a three person job to shift ammunition from the primary handling robot in the hoist to the cart. We need some way to make the autonomous carts go over the gasket.”

“How much does it interfere with the takt time of the ammunition loading procedure? I’m going to be honest,” Anna stretched and reached for her mug, “my automatic first response to someone suggesting we change ammunition handling arrangements is ‘no’.”

“Oh, don’t worry, ma’am,” Stasia replied from her own mug. “I  _ completely  _ agree with you there. We can’t accept anything that will damage the gasket… What’s takt time again?”

“Oh, but I thought that was a word from your world.”

“It is, but I’m a marine watch officer by experience, not a design engineer, which is who I think uses it,” Stasia blushed. “Also I came up the hard way, not through one of the Maritime Academies.”

“You’re smarter because of it,” Lar’shan offered. 

“Thanks, I think.” Stasia flashed a grin to the Dilgar pilot.

“Takt time is how fast it should be taking to handle one bomb to keep up with arming demand, in this scenario,” Anna explained gently. “So, I’m asking what the delta is between the the current time to process a bomb rack from the mag and what we need to keep up with the ability of the armourers to actually load the craft in the strike wing.”

“Oh, uh,” Lar’shan and Stasia conferred, making a couple of calculations. They were both more comfortable with notepads for those than anything else.

Stasia looked up. “Eleven seconds. Two for each pass, two more for the extra time than the lift and set motions are split, and five for the handling robot turning around in a tighter space.”

“Eleven seconds per bomb rack, four bomb racks on a fighter-bomber, but divide by eight handling hoists for the entire wing, and then we’ve got the bombers too. Yeah, we need to fix this. For the fighter-bombers alone it adds six minutes and forty seconds to the arming operation for the wing.” Anna sighed.  _ One more thing to do.  _

“Any solutions?” Lar’shan asked, pleased the Cheng had agreed with him.

“Not enough coffee for that,” Anna replied. “I miss Hargert’s  _ Milchkaffee,  _ speaking of. Why don’t we have a civilian café onboard? In all seriousness, I’m going to appoint a PDT with Lieutenant Kerrain in charge and I’ll closely supervise them. Once we have a solution we’ll test it in the holodeck through say ten thousand loading cycles to make sure it isn’t damaging the gaskets and we should have it deployed within two weeks, tops.”

“The  _ Aurora  _ had a  _ civilian café _ ?” Lar’shan stared. 

“Yes it did,” Stasia answered. “Something like twenty actual factual civilians onboard, no uniforms, not warrants, not enlisted, not officers, not police, freaking civvies. But Hargert’s food was so good, who cares? There was a big craving for non-replicated home cooking and some place to hang out like you were on leave, in fact inside the café off-base rules applied like you weren’t even aboard ship.”

“That’s so strange,” Lar’shan answered. “But I suppose it’s merely a quirk of the  _ Aurora. _ ”

“No, it isn’t,” Anna interjected. “We’re  _ supposed  _ to have a civilian café onboard. In fact, our MTOE has  _ fourteen  _ civilians in it: Four engineering technical specialists, two psychotherapy and specialist medicine doctors, two non-uniformed religious officiants or priests as a contingency for religious faiths which don’t allow uniformed chaplains, and  _ six  _ ‘hospitality staff’ for our café. And right now we don’t have  _ any  _ of them, and neither any Chaplains, though the  _ Aurora  _ didn’t either. Setting up an interfaith Chaplain service, it turns out, is hard and politically complicated, and low priority in the middle of a major war for frankly stupid reasons since Chaplains are important for morale, but the end result is it’s been ad-hoc and mostly in the Army.”

“I get the feeling Captain Zhen’var doesn’t  _ want  _ any of those civilian billets filled, as an aside,” Stasia added. 

“You’re absolutely right,” Anna smiled tightly. “This is the woman who restricts the holodecks to training, equipment testing, and time-limited rewards for exemplary ideas and work. ‘Good job, you’re authorized an hour in the holodeck’ is not something I thought I’d be saying on a regular basis, but...”

“Yep. She’s using ‘em exactly like a Hollywood shower on a submarine back home,” Stasia grinned.

“Exactly. Speaking of which have I mentioned that bathing is the most wonderful thing we have?” Anna smiled brightly and Lar’shan rolled his eyes.

“Well, ladies,” he offered a moment later, “it sounds like you both  _ want  _ such a café.” 

“Yes,” they chorused. 

“Perhaps we could go to Commander Atreiad together about it.”

“You don’t think the Captain would veto it?” Stasia blinked. 

“I should think not, she was the one who started delegating, and the Commander is in charge of personnel billets. I’ll schedule an appointment this afternoon,” Lar’shan offered.

Anna frowned. “Sure, but part of the charm is Hargert. I’d hate for this to, I don’t know, go to open bid, and we’re stuck with some mega-chain from one of the big Republics.”

“I have an idea,” Stasia offered. “I know a Bulgarian girl who really needs a job, and a family who could really use some help…

  
  
  
  
  


Three hours later, they were all sitting in Will’s office, and explaining the idea to him. “So you already have someone in mind, too?” Will looked up. 

“Her name is Alexandra Antonova Tambovna, and she previously worked as a secretary for the local Gestapo, I know I know, but what can you say?” Stasia gestured. “I certainly don’t mind. She’s a smart cook and hard worker, but not really cut for the fisherwoman’s trade. Her family also could use a renewed source of hard currency instead of another hand on the trawler. Bulgarian food is great, everyone will love  _ shashlik _ . Except me, but I love  _ tsatsa _ .”

“We’re going to need the full food service complement to operate the café. Let her hire other people from Drachenfeldt who need jobs?” Will asked, bringing up a document and scanning it on his terminal. 

“I believe that makes sense,” Lar’shan offered, “though I suppose they couldn’t be German.”

“Well, maybe if we subjected them to extreme vetting, but it would be kind of ridiculous to have an SS plant. Still, we can advertise. Definitely Bulgarian or Japanese volunteers. This is going to be a very risky job, you know. There’s a reason the Captain doesn’t like it at all.”

“Well, yes, on the  _ Aurora  _ the civilians had to fight during the … Incident that left her heavily damaged,” Anna phrased it carefully. Large parts of that were still classified. “On the other hand, it’s a matter of naval policy.” 

“Yeah, you’re right. All right. Two days to arrange recruiting and procuring equipment in--though I imagine you can fab most of that, right, Anna?” 

“Yes, kitchen equipment will be an odd interlude for the machine shop, that’s all.” 

“All right then.” Will smiled at Stasia’s grin. “You can go ahead and tell Miss Tambovna that she has a job, if she wants one.”

“And the Captain?” Lar’shan asked. 

“Oh, this is my bailiwick.” He rubbed his head. “And you all owe me for it.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


It was about thirty minutes before they were due to leave orbit of Drachenfeldt when Will stepped down into the main cargo hold section of the engineering hull. He had just finished talking to the Captain about his authorization of the café two days before, and suddenly having civilians onboard, and now he knew his headache was about to get worse. He was standing in front of Colonel Fei’nur, and to be honest, the woman, who ranked him even though he was the XO (Abebech did too, which made his position especially weird), remained as intimidating as hell. They’d spoken occasionally outside of professional moments and staff meetings, and he got the feeling that he rated somewhat better than most other humans in her eyes from his colonial background, but that didn’t help much.

He was a lot younger, for starters. But this, this… “Colonel, I understand you pulled rank to use the cargo transporters to completely fill Hold Eight, with three two hundred and fifty tonne beam-ups. Would you mind explaining what the heck you were doing?”

She looked down at him, her expression inscrutable as she processed the request. “Yes.” the Dilgar woman replied, flatly.

Will ran a hand in his hair and stared for a moment. A long moment. “Okay, Colonel, I respect that. Really. But it’s my job to handle cargo space allocation on this ship. What are you  _ doing  _ in Hold Eight? I mean, you just beamed  _ seven hundred and fifty tons  _ onto the ship.” 

“Rectifying deficiencies in the Marine contingent, Commander.” Fei’nur always spoke in an intensely clipped, accented voice when she did not want to answer questions, and this was  _ clearly _ one of those times. “The allocation shall be permanent. I will require additional volume within Hold Eight as well, with additional life-support resources.”

“Colonel… Is there anyone you’re going to explain this to?” A pained expression flickered across Will’s face.  _ This is pretty much the most bluntly disrespectful she’s ever been. What in Hades is going on? _

Fei’nur gave him a lingering sharp look, before finally turning quickly on a heel. “Follow me, Commander.” She started walking without waiting for a response.

He fell in with a shake of his head. “I mean, if you just want to tell Captain Zhen’var, you can, Colonel.”

“It will be difficult to conceal. We are requisitioning use of Engineering staff for securing anchors.” She had a quick military pace, and there were  _ sentries _ before the bay - she leaned down for the retinal scan of a hastily-fitted security lock, stepping in to the cavernous bay. A smile stole across her face as she glanced behind her. “I am very proud of our new Three Sisters, you know.”

Will stared. Then he stared again. “I, uh… I can see why.” Three super-heavy Mk.IX SS “Lowe” Panzers were sitting cheek to jowl in Cargo Hold Eight. “...Very well, Colonel, carry on.”

“I will  _ not _ let my people be out-gunned ever again, Commander. I have requested another company from the Union to allow me to fill out a complete battalion with additional salvaged heavy weapons. They and their equipment should fill the rest of the bay, once sections of the remainder are converted to troop quarters.”

“Well, for our peace-keeping mission…” He grinned mirthlessly. “It actually makes sense. Carry on, Colonel. And sorry I bothered you.”

“You were carrying out your duty.” Fei’nur gave a nod, and moved further into the bay, inspecting the work carried out so far.

  
  
  
  
  


They were warping away from Drachenfeldt and toward the occupied Earth they had fought so hard to conquer from the Nazi regime, and then from there toward whatever their next mission would be. Elia took the time to send a message to Zhen’var asking for permission to join her for dinner that night. 

She’d dashed back a quick agreement, then, and would be reading a book on her small couch in her quarters when the door chime sounded. “Come in!”

“Thank you, Captain,” Elia said, stepping inside and waiting for the door to close. Once it did, she grinned. “Did I ever mention, Zhen’var, that getting to hang out with you makes my day happier? Because it totally does.”

“I do not need to tell you that it does the same to I, Elia. Sit, please. What is on the agenda for today, hm?” 

“Sitting down? Listening to Rihannsu classical music that Arterus loaned to me?” Elia sighed dramatically as she settled into a chair. “Alas, but there is a bit more than that. So.” A wry grin. “Drachenfeldt. Can you believe people weren’t shooting at each other when we left?”

“Well, come on, sit, and put on the music. Then we shall discuss Drachenfeldt, which worked out as well as I could  _ dare _ to hope.”

“Ooh, as usual, the answer might be to the effect of ‘both’,” Elia laughed, and put the music on. “Do you feel,” she asked after that, “that perhaps the way the situation resolved itself was a little bit.. Weird? I mean, the way the Nazis attacked at more or less the worst possible time… For them.”

“Yes. I think… I think that Imra may be more than she appears to be, if you will permit. We had a very  _ interesting _ conversation two nights ago.”

“I’m going to bear that carefully in mind… Zhen’var, you do know she’s a telepath, right? It would be hard for her to keep it a secret from me, of course, and I don’t think she really tries, but she doesn’t advertise it either. Has she told you?”

“She admitted it when I asked, at least. She does not really try to hide it, as you said. The woman is… full of hidden depths. I think she, by all rights, should be commanding this ship, Elia.”

“I think you should, Zhen’var,” Elia answered, “but she should probably have her own different ship. Or fleet. But despite that… I don’t know. I think she… Meddled, when it came to the SS attack. It’s too convenient, and I understand that you had … Talked to her about it.”

“I back my officers when they exercise initiative, and I do not think she would act with ill-will to us, Elia. I would  _ like _ to think, perhaps, we may have a strange friendship if we have more conversations like that.” Zhen’var murmured, shaking her head slightly.

“I wish I was her friend,” Elia admitted after a moment. “I’ve been suspicious of her, but I think it’s mostly that I want to be friends with another telepath. But she doesn’t really want to be my friend …. I think.”

“Be honest with her. I get the impression that she appreciates directness, and will… perhaps not give a full account, but will explain, at least partially. I am sorry the Mha’dorn are… not quite the same? I do not…  _ truly _ understand the details, only intellectually, but I do think that she… believes she acts for the best interests of the crew and those around her.”

“The Mha’dorn keep me on this ship, Zhen’var, I have good friends among them. I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I was just raised to see consensus with other human telepaths as an important part of my life. I  _ can  _ subsume myself in a gestalt of Dilgar, and I  _ have. _ I still feel a craving to be Abebech’s friend, though. Please don’t get me wrong, Zhen’var… Truth be told, some of it might be that I make friends with Dilgar better than humans at this point, so I wonder if I can ever really be myself in the company of other human telepaths again.”

“No, I  _ understand _ , Elia. Mother and Father, yes? I do not have the same experiences, but I know what an unconventional family is like…. And socialization. We are  _ quite _ the pair of misfits sometimes, are we not?”

“It’s why we’re best friends, Captain. And that’s why I’m going to trust you with Abebech.” She reached out, and through a gloved hand, squeezed one of Zhen’var’s.

“Thank you, Elia… now, let us listen to Romulan--Rihannsu?--music? Or was there something else work-related, my friend?”

“No, that was it, and it was probably silly. I mostly want to snuggle.” She flushed a bit, but it didn’t alter the sentiment.

“Creche for you, boarding school for me? We will have to watch more Bollywood, you know. Perhaps some of the new Dilgar musicals, they have a sort of quirky low-budget charm to them?” Hugging her friend, her  _ best _ friend, Zhen’var grinned widely.

“Oh, brilliant. We’re now planning to watch low budget movies together. Yes, let’s.”  _ Friendship is always a worthy triumph. _

  
  
  


**Tag**

The  _ Huáscar  _ was tasting virgin space, and the  _ Heermann  _ was the point of the spear. In her career in the Alliance Stellar Forces, Abebech Imra had not done exploration before. In fact, she really hadn’t done it at all. Her career had been a decided bloody one, and there was no use dwelling on that. 

This was the  _ Huáscar _ ’s first trip to a completely new universe, on her originally designed exploration duty. Ahead of her was the version of Earth in this universe, now designated M5G8. There had already been Dilgar grumbling about that. The strange way that humans seemed blessed to live in every universe, and aliens were relegated to the universe they had evolved in -- just one.

Abebech had some idea why, but she couldn’t exactly share it with anyone, and the usefully relevant details were lost in the murk of deep time, anyway, even with her connections. And they were already picking up interesting readings from the planet. “Goodenough?” 

“... _ Massively  _ anomalous mass signatures in orbit, Captain.” He chuckled faintly at his own formulation. “Try hundreds of spacedock-sized, but less dense, objects, and there are entire clouds of sensor interference--space debris, most likely.”

“...Hundreds? Debris enough to jam our sensors?” Abebech stared at the screen, pursing gloved hands in front of her and folding her legs. “Bring us out of warp at a distance and maintain cloak, helm.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Ca’elia answered from her post, the smartly put together Dilgar smoothly bringing the  _ Heermann  _ out earlier than planned. 

“Full passive sensor sweeps.”

“Resolving…” Goodenough implemented the scans. 

As he did, Abdulmehmet shouted from his own tactical position. “Captain! There are weapons signatures considering with a major engagement -- energy weapons -- near a large asteroid at the L-5 point.”

“Are there… Goodenough? Are you able to image the anomalies yet?”

“On screen now, Captain.”

The image that flashed into view was something she immediately recognised.

“A hab!” Ca’elia shouted. “Just like the Aururian ones.”

“So it is, L’tenant,” Abebech agreed softly. “So it is. ‘Hundreds’... Get me that asteroid in L-5, please.”

The image shifted. Fire swept across the flanks from vessels too small to see, hotly engaged with each other. Abebech watched it, watched it… And jerked sharply in her chair.  “Get the  _ Huáscar,  _ emergency priority. This is turning into a first contact like no other. And lay in a course for that position at maximum warp.”

“Captain, we do not have orders to intervene,” Goodenough reminded her, formally.

  
Abebech seemed entranced in her chair. Her XO had certainly never seen her like that before. “Just get me closer. Under cloak. I need to  _ see  _ what’s going on.”


End file.
